


No Way Out But Through

by kristen999



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristen999/pseuds/kristen999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling is never easy, nor is standing back up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of four months of stress release.
> 
> I owe so much to my wonderful betas! Thank you esteefee, mischief5 ,and verasteine. Also a big thanks to my amazing first readers! You were my lanterns in the tunnel and I love you all. Tip of the hat to Stine for your research help early on.
> 
> ***Warning for violence and language.

****

_“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.” ― Maya Angelou_

 

***

 

It's been a long day of an even more grueling week, with too many hours chasing down leads and hours clocked conducting surveillance. Steve's brain feels fried from too much caffeine and lack of sleep. Maybe he needs to add an extra training regimen to his schedule, build up his long-term endurance, but tonight, tonight is about forgetting and relaxing. And _relishing._ He smiles at the thought of other types of endurance tests when Danny arrives.

He parks his truck and stretches as he climbs out, twisting his back, sliding his sunglasses into his pants pocket. Steve walks up the steps two at a time, taps in his alarm code, slides in his key into the lock, and shakes his head. He forgot charcoal. There's only a quarter of a bag in the garage, but he dismisses the idea of running to the store and will call Danny to ask him while he's out grabbing beer. Steve really needs to hop in the shower. Opening the door, he steps inside, and starts to pull out his cell phone.

Someone rushes toward him from his left, spinning a brutal kick into the side of Steve's knee, cutting pain enveloping the joint. His leg buckles, sending him crashing to the floor onto his hands and knees. By the time he registers past the agony, his assailant strikes him at the side of his neck, a sharp pain shooting down the nerve into his left arm and hand. 

Trying to react to the surprise assault, he rolls onto his back in time to grab a foot aimed at his face. Steve fumbles a grip into shoe leather and he yanks his opponent's ankle forward, jabbing his tingling left elbow into his attacker's shin. 

The assailant grunts and he backs away, giving Steve enough time to scramble to his feet. As Steve puts weight on his injured left leg, the muscles quiver, his knee refusing to bend. 

Limping a few steps into the living room, Steve gets his first real look at his foe, committing details to memory. White male. Late forties. Six foot three. Over two hundred pounds. Dark eyes and hair. Expensive suit.

He stalls for time. "Who are you?" The guy remains silent. "You're obviously an enforcer," Steve adds, breathing fast, his heart racing with adrenaline. "If you wanted to kill me, you could have shot me when you had the opportunity." 

The guy doesn't sneer or taunt. He's a professional, and that's even more dangerous, because he won't act rashly and do something stupid. Instead, he gets into a ready stance, hands up and loose by his sides, his shin obviously not injured enough to be a detriment.

Steve's knee is a liability and he needs to act fast before it impedes him too much, so he fakes a stumble forward, forcing a reaction from his opponent. His attacker lunges and Steve meets his rush with palm strikes to the solar plexus, his hands smacking against body armor hidden beneath the guy's shirt. Shocked by the concealed protection, Steve quickly recalculates his options, and he hobbles backward, forced on the defensive. 

The guy attacks, aiming punches at Steve's face. He ducks his head out of the way, his neck muscles seizing, but his attacker doesn't let up. Steve manages to keep out of striking range, backing away, his knee hurting with each movement. 

He focuses on anticipating his opponent's next moves, ignoring the pain. Raising his forearms, he blocks several jabs to his midsection, the guy's palms bouncing off bone. He can't counterattack with kicks or a leg sweep with his knee out of commission, so he watches as the guy circles him like a predator, while Steve wracks his brain for a usable move, a plan, any plan.

Steve limps, tries to keep in step with his enemy, but he isn't fast enough to avoid the next rush. The guy unleashes a series of left and right elbow strikes, the pointy ends striking Steve's cheek and under his right eye. His head whips back and he sees stars, but he ignores the throbbing of his face. He watches his assailant's arms shift and disrupts the next attack by stepping forward, blocking the next elbow with his right forearm. Seeing an opening, he delivers a left palm under the guy's chin with a satisfying _snap._

Unable to use his knee, he goes for a debilitating right hook to the ear. But his enemy blocks the punch with his own forearm, and before Steve can readjust into a defensive position, the guy grabs Steve by the shoulders, shoving Steve's body forward into an oncoming knee. He doubles over from the blow to his stomach that knocks all the air out of his lungs. Then the guy lifts Steve up by his shoulders and delivers two more devastating knee blows to Steve's lower ribs. 

He feels the _crack_ and he gasps for air, a splitting pain riding up his side. He can't recover fast enough and hands grab him by the skull, shoving Steve's forehead into another upcoming knee.

Pain explodes behind his eyes, across his temples, his vision graying out. He twists away, hobbling in search of something to grab, anything to use as a weapon. Disoriented and in pain everywhere, he stumbles into the dining room, unable to fully stand.

Every breath hurts and he wraps an arm around his side; there's a buzzing in his ears and the room keeps tilting out of balance. Fingers grab him by his shirt collar and a fist plows brutally into his lower back, three times in rapid succession, the pain so great, moisture trickles out of the corners of his eyes.

Steve throws out a desperate elbow, connecting with a cheekbone or a nose, and he manages to get to the dining room table. The glass saltshaker is the only thing in reach and Steve curls his fingers around it as he hears footsteps behind him. An elbow is driven into the small of his back and Steve cries out when it strikes the same spot a second time.

Steve swings around and smashes his assailant in the jaw with the saltshaker. The asshole yells in surprise and Steve jabs him in the throat with his thumb, the guy making a strangled noise and grabbing his neck. 

Steve's dizzy and off balance, but he can't back down, he can't quit. His attacker continues gagging and coughing and Steve staggers away, tries to put space between them so he can regroup, but a boot connects to the back of his injured knee in a blossom of pain and his legs give out. 

Collapsing to the floor, he desperately crawls toward the closest chair. Curling his hand around a chair leg, Steve conjures the last of his energy, hoping he can roll onto his back and use it as a weapon. But the chair is lifted up out of his grasp and slammed down on top of his wrist.

Steve yells.

He writhes on the floor, cradling his wrist, flipping over onto his back, his chest heaving. He gulps for air, his body trembling, and when he opens his eyes, his assailant kneels over him.

"Commander McGarrett," the guy rasps, his voice whisper thin. "I have a message for you."

Steve stares with blurry vision, smiling when he notices how badly the guy's jaw is swollen. "Oh, yeah?"

The guy bends over, gripping the edge of Steve's throat and collarbone, pressing on the nerve point with his thumb. It's a terrifying intimidation tactic, paralyzing his ability to move his head, but Steve glares defiantly into his assailant's dark eyes. "End your investigations into Moreno's operations. End them now or face even more consequences."

It takes a second for Steve's rattled brain to connect the dots; the governor had just requested an aggressive investigation into the tycoon's empire. "Really?" Steve rumbles.

"If you begin your investigations, your team will suffer. Ms. Kalakaua, Mr. Kelly, and Mr. Williams. Their family, their friends. No one will be safe." 

"If you...harm any of them..."

"But I will. I'll break them just as I broke you. How are _you_ going to protect them?"

Steve's blood roars in his ears. "I'll kill you."

"You can try, Commander. I understand." The guy doesn't give a big speech or gloat; he just stares at Steve with a neutral expression. "We all have jobs to do and mine is to ensure that my message is clearly received." He rears back his fist, smashing it into the side of Steve's jaw, sending shock waves through his head. "Do you understand?" 

"Sorry... my ears... are ringing," Steve groans.

"Then I must ensure my message gets through all the noise." 

Steve knows what's coming next and he's helpless to stop it. The first two punches slam into his face, the third blow bounces the back of his skull against the floor and sends him into oblivion. 

***

Danny drums his fingers on the wheel to Springsteen, belting out the familiar lyrics to _Our Town._ This is good; this isn't the last six days of tailing drug dealers, pinching CIs, and non-stop surveillance. No, tonight is about steaks, loaded baked potatoes, and a twelve pack of Old Guardian, not Longboards, this isn't a Longboard night. This is about getting tipsy, shooting the shit, and turning off his brain.

He eases his foot off the gas when he notices the speedometer's hit seventy. His cell phone starts ringing and he thinks about not checking the caller ID, but it could be important, and he snags it from its spot next to the cup holder. Steve's name flashes on the display. Danny smiles. Maybe he won't get too tipsy, not the way Steve had been glancing at him all damn day. Steve McGarrett is many things but subtle is not one of them, and the want and urgency in his eyes always gives him away.

But Danny doesn't mind; after this week, he needs a release, too.

"What did you forget?" he asks, answering the phone. "Whatever it is, I'm not turning around. I'm ten minutes away and the store is twenty. You do the math."

_"Detective Williams."_

Danny's blood runs cold at the stranger's voice on the other end. "Who the hell is this?"

_"The person standing in Commander McGarrett's house. I think it would be best if you came over. And I would call an ambulance."_

The call ends and Danny yanks hard on the steering wheel, pulling onto the shoulder, horns blaring behind him. He hits send, clenching the phone, which rings until it beeps to voice mail. Then he hits send again.

"Come on, come on, pick up, Steven."

When it hits voice mail again, Danny guns the engine, pulling back onto the road, dialing Chin. He's not going to order any paramedics into an unknown, insecure situation. 

_"Hey Danny, what's up? I thought –"_

"I need you and Kono to meet me at Steve's now."

_"What's –"_

"I don't know what's going on. Something bad, just meet me there. I'm less than ten minutes out."

_"Okay. I'll call Kono. We'll be there. Do you want me to notify HPD?"_

"Yeah. Let them know I'll be on the scene."

Danny ignores the speed limit, flipping on the lights and sirens, his foot slamming on the accelerator. 

***

The only vehicle in the driveway is Steve's truck. Danny resists the urge to bust through the front door, instead checking the window for movement, weapon drawn. The door isn't all the way closed, and he pushes it open with his foot. He quickly sweeps the living room, and goes toward the stairs, gives them a quick look to see if anyone is hiding on the landing before heading toward the office and dining room. 

When he rounds the corner, Danny makes a strangled noise in his throat. Steve is lying unmoving on the floor, sprawled on his back, his head lolled to one side. 

Danny runs over and kneels on the floor next to him. "Steve? Steve, can you hear me?" 

With a trembling hand, he presses his fingers to Steve's neck, relief flooding his veins at the thready beat.

His instincts kick in seconds later and he pulls out his cell and dials 911. "This is Detective Danny Williams, Five-O," he says. Then he rattles off his badge number and the address to the operator, repeating his request just in case his voice is too frantic before hanging up. "I have an officer down, requesting a bus." 

Danny blows out a breath and he begins searching for injuries, noticing the swelling around Steve's eyes, his jaw, and he has to swallow down the rage boiling in his gut.

He brushes a hand across Steve's face, worry doubling at the clamminess of his skin. "You can wake up anytime, Steve," he says, his voice breaking. But Steve doesn't stir, and Danny gently checks Steve's skull for signs of injury, his attention lingering at the large reddish bruise forming across Steve's forehead. 

He searches for bullet and stab wounds next, hands ghosting across Steve's chest, his sides, but he can't find any holes and he lifts up Steve's shirt, his blood pressure doubling at the fresh, pink contusions over his abdomen. 

He closes his eyes, counts to three so he can keep it together, and when he reaches Steve's arms, he notices the swollen, deformed joint of his right wrist, and Danny bites down on his hand to keep from screaming. "I swear to god, Steven, I'm going to find the sons of bitches that did this and I'm going to –"

He stops mid-rant at the sirens growing in the distance and he takes several breaths to calm the blood roaring in his ears. "I'll be right back. I need to lead the cavalry here," he says, resting a hand on Steve's chest.

Running outside, he meets the ambulance and the two-person paramedic team. His heart sinks in relief, recognizing Heiki, a frequent guest to some of their scenes. She adjusts two packs over her shoulders. "Danny. This is Greg," she says, hooking a thumb at a middle-aged guy with glasses pushing a stretcher. 

Danny nods. "It's McGarrett. I think he was in a hell of a fight. He's unconscious." 

Heiki takes the information in stride as she and Greg enter the house, each bending down beside Steve. "Commander McGarrett, can you hear me?" she asks, taking his limp fingers into hers. "Squeeze my hand if you hear my voice."

But Steve doesn't respond and Heiki peels back each of Steve's eyelids, shining her penlight under each one. "Pupils are equal and sluggish."

"There's bruising around his throat, but his airway is clear," Greg says. He swiftly slips on a stethoscope and listens to Steve's chest. "Good breath sounds bilaterally, no signs of a collapsed lung. Respiration's rapid and shallow at 32. Starting O2."

Heiki and Greg work fast and efficiently. Greg carefully places an oxygen mask over Steve's nose and mouth. He gets out a pair of scissors and cuts open Steve's T-shirt, then makes two quick slits down each leg of his cargo pants. Putting the scissors away, Greg begins palpating each section of Steve's torso with his fingers. 

"No obvious breaks of one through eight. Chest wall is stable," Greg says, moving laterally, frowning. "Ninth and tenth rib are crunchy. Abdomen's guarded." He continues toward Steve's legs, pausing mid-way. "I've got heavy swelling to the left knee."

Heiki listens to her partner while she wraps and pumps a BP cuff around Steve's arm, touching Steve's face and neck with her other hand. "Skin's cool and clammy," she says, resting her fingers along his uninjured wrist. "He's tachy and hypotensive. Pulse 125, BP 70 over 40."

That's bad. Steve's a healthy SOB, one of those athletic guys whose resting pulse doesn't go above fifty. 

"Starting fluids," Heiki says, finding a vein and inserting a very large needle before taping it in place. "Let's get him ready for transport."

Danny doesn't need an paramedic's knowledge to understand why Heiki's in a rush to leave; she's worried about internal injuries. He can't fathom what it took to take down a Navy SEAL, to hurt fucking Steve McGarrett, and it makes him want to rip someone limb to limb.

Greg starts placing the c-collar around Steve's neck when Steve gasps awake.

"Commander McGarrett?" Heiki says, peering over him. "Commander McGarrett, it's Heiki. I'm here to help you, do you understand?" Steve's eyes dart toward her face. "Commander, everything is going to be all right, we're taking you to the hospital."

But Steve doesn't seem to hear or understand, his eyes fluttering open and closed in confusion as he twists away from Greg's continuous attempts to wrap the collar around his neck.

"Commander, I know it hurts but please try to lie still," Greg says, trying to keep Steve's head stable between his hands. "We need to secure you to the stretcher."

Heiki gently holds Steve's arms to his sides, while curling a finger around his wrist, her voice stressed. "His pulse is up to 140."

Steve's breathing is rapid under the mask between groans of pain. 

It takes all of Danny's resolve not to shove the paramedics out of the way and grab a hold of him. "Steve, I know it hurts," he says, forcing calm he doesn't feel into his voice, wanting so badly to ease the agony. "These people are going to take real good care of you, okay?" 

But his words don't have an effect and Steve grimaces, his face pinched in distress. 

Danny runs both hands frantically through his hair, his heart pounding against his breastbone. "Could you please give him something!"

"We are, Detective," Heiki says, sternly but professionally. She nods at Greg. "Push 5 milligrams of morphine." Peering down at Steve, she speaks in a calm soothing manner. "Steve, we're giving you something for the pain."

Tremors wrack down Steve's arms and legs. Danny knows Steve's adrenaline is receding and shock's taking over, and he wants to help, needs to do something instead of watching him suffer. 

Greg injects Steve's IV with the needed medication while Danny finds a spot at Steve's side by his head, out of the way of those trying to care for him. "I'm right here, babe, and I'm not going anywhere, even if you can't hear me."

He touches Steve's bicep, rubbing soothing circles over the skin underneath the shirtsleeve. Steve's whole body begins relaxing, his mouth falling open, his eyes mercifully lazing closed from the narcotics.

Heiki and Greg waste no time in getting the C-collar in place, rolling Steve onto the backboard, and strapping him in for transport. It's the first time Danny notices the wail of sirens outside and he rushes out the door ahead of the stretcher, waving his badge unnecessarily at the HPD officers approaching the house, his eyes glued to Chin's SUV as it pulls up.

Hearing the stretcher behind him, Danny points a finger at Heiki. "I'm coming with you."

"We roll with or without you," she tells him.

By the time Chin and Kono jog over, Danny has intercepted them. "I got a call about ten minutes ago from someone using Steve's cell. He told me he was at Steve's house and that I should get an ambulance. I went in and swept the downstairs and found Steve on the dining room floor."

Kono and Chin crane their necks, searching over Danny's head as Heiki and Greg load the stretcher inside the cab. "How is he?" Kono asks her eyes wide in worry.

"He looks like he went ten rounds with one of his SEAL teams," Danny growls, wanting to punch something or someone. "I'm going to ride along with him. I know it's a lot to ask, but can you two remain and take over the scene? I want every scrap of evidence that will lead us to the people that did this."

Chin grabs Danny's shoulder, his face determined. "We'll handle it."

"Go with Steve," Kono says, jerking her head at the ambulance. "Keep us updated."

"I will."

And Danny runs over, climbs inside, and finds a place to sit across from Steve, Heiki slamming the door closed behind him.

***

The ambulance ride is a blur of Danny struggling to remain calm while his brain rationalizes the last half hour of chaos, and it's not until they've pulled up to the emergency room that Heiki's voice breaks him out of his dazed state.

"You need to let go of his arm, Detective."

Danny looks up at her then down where his fingers are curled around Steve's good wrist. "Oh, sorry."

"Don't be," she says with a sad smile.

It takes enormous effort to uncurl his fingers. He needs the physical contact just as much he thinks Steve needs it too on some subconscious level.

He hurries after the stretcher, gathering his wits about him, because Danny is a cop, and Steve, god damn it, is a victim here, and no matter he how hard he tries to deny it, the truth is a harsh, ugly reality. So, he barrels his way alongside the gurney all the way into one of the trauma rooms where Steve disappears from sight under a flock of medical personnel, Danny's thoughts drowned out by shouts for vitals and calls for tests.

Suddenly, his tiny worldview is replaced by a short round woman. "I'm sorry, but you can't be in here."

"I'm Detective –"

"I'm sorry, sir, but it doesn't matter who you are. No unauthorized people in the triage area."

"I am a member of Five-O and _that_ patient is my partner."

"And we want to make sure your partner gets the best care possible," the nurse says, standing her ground. But her wrinkled face softens. "I will ensure all his clothes and belonging are bagged and given to you right away."

"Come on, Danny," Heiki says, walking up to him and gently takes his arm. "Let them do their job."

Danny reluctantly follows her toward the waiting room and into a chair in the far corner. He slumps down in the hard plastic, his head bumping against the wall.

"Hey. Do you need me to call someone?"

"No, I'm good," he says, his voice scratchy.

Heiki frowns, looking toward the emergency doors. "Look, I've got another run to make. Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

The question is theoretical, but kind, and Danny absently nods his head and waits for news, any news.

***

He feels trapped, caught between cooling his heels in the waiting room, asking for updates on Steve, and striding outside to check in with Chin and Kono. Danny wracks his brain over suspects. There is a long list of arms dealers, murders, kidnappers, and any number of a dozen people still waiting trial, or who have been recently convicted that might have hired people to seek revenge. Except Steve is alive and revenge usually involves bombs, bullets, or knives.

He paces, not giving a shit about everyone else giving him the evil eye because he won't sit there like some lump. If he stays still, his mind wanders, and if his mind wanders, all he thinks about is discovering Steve on the floor, and it's so wrong. Steve is danger personified, a bull in a fucking china shop. He's electricity, a charge that feeds them both. 

But he can't let his thoughts run away with him. He needs to focus, needs to reel in his emotions. Needs to...

"I'm an idiot," Danny snarls and stomps outside again.

He dials Chin.

_"Hey."_

"Did you find Steve's cell? The bastard that called me –"

_"It was the first thing we found on the dining room table. There's a smudge on the screen, but it looks like the suspect used his knuckle to hit you on speed dial."_

Danny rubs his forehead in exasperation. "Of course, he did. Do you have any idea how many possible assailants there were?"

_"Not yet. However many, they were efficient. The place isn't nearly in enough shambles for the magnitude of fight that must have taken place."_

"I guess we'll have to wait on Steve to fill us on what the hell happened."

Chin pauses and Danny already knows what he's going to ask. _"Any word?"_

"Oh, yeah, plenty of words," Danny says, feeling his blood run hot. "CT scans, ultra sounds, x-rays, none of which tell me how he is doing or when I can see him."

_"Hold on just a little longer; we're almost done."_

"Don't rush –"

_"We've been here over two hours; the rest is up to the lab boys. We'll see you soon."_

"Okay," Danny says, unable to comprehend how much time has passed since this nightmare's started.

***

It's not until Chin and Kono arrive, each of them giving Danny a quick hug, that he realizes how much he's missed their strength. Chin wordlessly hands him a Styrofoam cup of coffee and Kono gives his knee a squeeze as they sit down, the two of them book-ending him. 

"Did you find anything?" he asks.

"Nothing so far," Chin sighs, grim. "There was no forced entry. Someone entered the alarm code around six p.m., then Steve entered it thirty minutes later."

Danny fumes, staring at the floor. "Where they lay in wait." His imagination kicks it, picturing several men biding their time until Steve walked in totally unaware. With numbers and surprise on their side, even someone with Steve's training wouldn't stand a chance. "Bastards. I swear..."

He stops mid-rant when Kono wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. "We'll get them. More importantly, Steve's going to be okay. He's a koa. In body and spirit."

He allows himself a moment's peace, of leaning on her, sharing comfort. But Danny jerks his head up as he hears approaching footsteps.

An older physician with a blue turban walks over, nodding. "I am Dr. Jagan Singh. I was told you were here waiting for Commander McGarrett?"

"Yes, we are," Chin answers. "We're his team."

Singh eyes all three of them in curiosity. "And will you still be in charge of his case?"

"Yes," Danny says, trying to curb the anxiety filling his gut.

"This would be the best time for your documentation," Singh tells them. "He is still heavily sedated and we are waiting for the swelling to go down in his wrist before we put it in a cast."

Danny stares at Singh's glasses, at the bright shade of his turban, the birthmark at the corner of his lip, and for once, he's struck silent by reality of his job.

"I have a camera in the car," Kono says, rubbing a hand nervously over her thigh.

Chin stands and nods at Kono to go ahead. She bites her lip and hurries out the double doors.

Singh clears his throat, his expression sympathetic. "I will wait until the three of you are ready."

***

Danny follows Singh, Kono, and Chin down the hall, his heart caught in his throat. This isn't the first time Steve's been injured, but Danny's never had to enter the ICU ward as a result. It scares him knowing Steve won't be sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing up his boots before the discharge nurse comes around or making deals with the attending physician regarding his release. This is twenty-four hour monitoring with crash carts nearby and a solemn hush whispering, _fragile: handle with care._

He watches Kono's face falter and Chin's back stiffen as they walk past curtained-off areas, bed after bed of the seriously ill. And all Danny can think is: Steve shouldn't be here. 

"Commander McGarrett is resting at the end of the row where we can proceed without disturbing the rest of the patients." Singh nods at a nurse with dark skin and short braided hair. "Helen is overseeing the commander's care during the night shift and she'll help move him so you can take pictures."

Danny dry swallows, walking toward the bed, stopping before he gets too much of an eyeful. He needs time to lock down his emotions; he owes it to Kono and Chin to keep his head, but most of all, he owes it to Steve to do his job. 

He looks away, needing a few seconds. "Can I have the camera?"

Kono grips it tightly between her fingers. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he says.

Kono slowly hands over the camera, her fingers brushing over his. Danny moves closer, noting every wire and tube sneaking under the thin sheet covering Steve, and the oxygen cannula and BP cuff around his right arm. Danny can't bear looking at him like this, so still and vulnerable. He brings the Nikon camera to his eye, views Steve through the filter of the lens while he takes the last steps leading toward the bed.

Singh holds onto a clipboard and begins filling out the police form. "We'll go from top to bottom. Based on our clinical findings, the commander has a concussion. After he regains consciousness, we'll do another examination."

"Is it serious?" Kono asks worried.

"Every concussion is serious, and we don't know how many blows to the head the commander suffered, but his scans are clear of contusions. I only have partial files from his military medical records, but given the fact he has suffered more than one head injury in the last five years, it will increase his time for recovery."

Danny snaps off pictures, the edge of Steve dark hair's providing a striking contrast to the fresh pink marring his skin.

"This bruise to the left side of his throat is quite peculiar," Singh says. "You can actually make out a thumb impression."

Danny shifts the lens, views the skin he'd licked last week, and ignores the memory echo of Steve's low moan. He disregards the broken blood vessels, takes a picture, his teeth clenched together so hard his jaw aches. 

But it gets worse, uglier, and Danny becomes even more enraged, the vein in his temple throbbing with every word Singh says.

"There is extensive bruising to his jaw, eyes, and face, but X-rays are negative for broken bones."

Danny remembers how badly Steve's mouth hurt after Korea, when yogurt, soup, and oatmeal factored heavily into meals. 

A day's worth of stubble covers the red contusions around his jaw, the one across Steve's cheek purpling around the edge and blossoming under his swollen eye. Danny imagines Steve squinting at him, cocking his head to compensate for his impaired vision, and longs to caress Steve's face...

"There are bruises along the sides and bottoms of his forearms," Singh continues.

"Those look defensive," Chin says, his voice steel. "He fought like hell."

Of course, he did; Steve is perpetual motion, fire and heat brimming beneath the surface, an untapped explosion. 

"His right radius is fractured," Singh begins again. "The radiologist noted that the break appears to be the result of blunt force trauma rather than from a fall or the bone being snapped from an angle."

The camera shakes in Danny's hand and he curls his fingers harder around it, adjusting the focus, wanting to blame it for why Steve's wrist is more than twice its size, his hand puffed-up like a sausage. 

Singh pulls the sheet down to Steve's thighs and Helen unties the string to the gown, revealing his midsection. Kono curses under her breath and Chin clamps his hand on the railing, his arms trembling. But Danny focuses on taking pictures, the view-screen filled with large red-violent swatches of skin, like mini explosions, across Steve's abdomen. 

"The eighth and ninth ribs are fractured. He was lucky – the breaks didn't puncture the lungs or other organs."

Lucky. Like surviving a North Korean torture chamber, or plane crashes in the jungle, or any number of close calls that he'll never know about, except for the scars Danny has memorized with his tongue and tried to make a distant memory. 

Helen pulls the blue sheet further down, uncovering where Steve's left leg sits propped up by pillows, his knee nearly unrecognizable beneath the swelling. She folds over the sheet over the side of Steve's body, ensuring only his left side is exposed; it's a considerate act to protect Steve's modesty. Danny swallows past the lump in his throat. 

"We'll temporally splint his knee for the night when you guys are done," Singh tells them. "Commander McGarrett's kneecap was almost dislocated, but it remained in place and he has strains to his cruciate and the collateral ligaments. His knee will need to reevaluated tomorrow."

Kono moves closer to the bed. "Both the cruciate and collateral?" 

"Yes." Singh looks up at her, his eyes crinkling. "Sounds like you're familiar with such an injury?"

"Yeah," Kono says with a tremble to her voice. But she clears her throat, glancing at Chin and Danny before looking over at Singh. "The collateral controls the sideways motion of the knee. The cruciate the back and forth. I destroyed my lateral collateral along with my ACL several years ago."

Danny listens, flicking his eyes from the doctor to Kono to the menu screen, breathing heavily through his nose.

"In weeks, the swelling will go down; until then, his knee will be very painful," Singh says, flipping over the form, writing on the second page. "Our main concern is the hematoma to his kidneys, and for that reason, I prefer not moving him around for you to take pictures."

Danny lowers his camera, forced to really look at Steve, at the flimsy gown Helen quickly ties back in place, at the slow rise and fall of his chest, at how unnaturally pale he looks in the awful low lightning. He should probably ask about treatment and risk factors, but instead, Danny notices all the hairs raised along Steve's arms and he takes the sheet and pulls it up to Steve's chest. 

Careful of the IV at the top of his hand and the BP cuff, Danny runs a finger along the soft patch of skin below Steve's thumb, avoiding the O2 clipped to the finger next to it. He can feel Chin and Kono's eyes on him, broadcasting waves of sympathy, and he drops his hand by his side and gives them a thin smile. "He looked cold."

Chin gives Danny's arm a squeeze, locking eyes with him, promising things that Danny can't give a voice to right now, because the moment he allows his emotions to slip out the growing cracks of his calm facade will be the moment Danny loses control. And God help those who get in his way.

"He's still dealing with the residual effects from shock and blood loss,” Helen says, her soft voice breaking the heavy silence. “We have blanket warmer on this ward. I'll get him a new one in a minute and make sure he stays warm.”

“Thank you,” Danny tells her.

Singh completes his form, handing it over to Chin. "Commander McGarrett will receive the best care. We'll monitor him closely until the internal bleeding is resolved and there is no sign of infection."

"Is that why he's in the ICU?" Chin asks, folding the report in half.

It's a testament to how much he's been filtering his thoughts that it didn't even occur to Danny to ask the same question. 

"Yes," Singh answers without preamble. "He can become hemodynamically unstable very fast. But he's young and very healthy, and while most of these injuries are not life threatening, cumulatively they are serious."

"How long will he need to be in the hospital?" Kono asks.

"Hard to tell," Singh non-answers. "A few days. Then he'll have anywhere from a four to eight week recovery period depending on how well he does." Sighing, the doctor looks candidly at them, his eyes betraying years of experience. "I've dealt with a number of physical assaults. Muggings, domestic abuse, bar fights. The person or persons involved in this knew exactly what they were doing. These were precise, vicious blows to vital parts of the body, but they were not lethal."

"This was about inflicting damage and pain," Danny says through gritted teeth.

"That is my belief," Singh says. 

Everything hits home like a punch to his chest. Finding Steve unconscious, then forced uselessly to the sideline when Steve awoke in pain. It's like discovering him in the back of that truck all over again, except this time...this time, the person responsible for it won't slip away unpunished. 

This is Hawaii, not North Korea.

"We'll be able to talk to him in the morning?" Danny asks, his voice deceptively steady.

"You should," Singh answers.

"Good," Danny mumbles. He looks up at Chin and Kono's curious expressions. "I want an HPD officer posted outside the ICU until further notice."

Kono nods. "You got it."

"What's the plan?" Chin asks.

"The assholes that did this used Steve as some kind of message. They _called me,_ " Danny growls, his body shaking with renewed adrenaline. "Well, we got their message, but now I have one of my own."

Chin clenches his hands by his sides. "Payback."

Danny looks from Chin to Kono, his voice a barely controlled whisper. "There is no stone too heavy, no hole deep enough for them crawl away and hide. I don't care how long it takes; we're not going to stop searching until we find these bastards."

***

Steve's body feels disconnected. He can't hold on to a single thought long enough before it drifts away, slips through fingers he can't feel, legs he can't move. 

"Commander? Commander, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear my voice."

Something warm and firm slips into his palm and Steve weakly grips it.

"That's great, Commander. Now, do you think you could open your eyes?"

He's not sure, but the voice is insistent, and Steve really needs to know what's going on because his gut twists in warning. It takes a few seconds to peel his gritty eyes open, the dark colors before them swirling into the blurry face of a woman. 

"Where?" He swallows, his voice scratchy, his throat painful. "Where?" He tries again.

"You're in a hospital, but you're going to be fine. Do you think you could tell me your name?"

Hospital? But which one?

She squeezes his hand again, and Steve glances up at the shadowed face. "I'm Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett."

"That's great. And do you know what city you're in?"

Ramstein. Kandahar? No, that's not right; he doesn't taste sand or smell like gun oil, but it's hard to think and his eyes keep drifting close.

"I know you're tired, but if you could just –"

"Oahu," Steve blurts, snapping his eyes open. "I'm on Oahu."

His instincts scream at him to regroup, focus, because...because...but the thought disappears, lost in a haze of... _painkillers._ He recognizes the fuzzy pull of narcotics, how they turn his body into rubber, numbing his brain, and fuck, if he could just think clearer. 

"Last question, Commander. Promise. Could you give me today's date?"

He blinks. "Thursday," Steve slurs, falling asleep.

***

Steve repeats his name for the doctor and only pauses for a second when he's asked who is the current president. 

He lies there listening to the physician discuss his injuries, and it's like watching a home movie with missing frames. Snapshots of fists and elbows flash in his head and he stares down at his leg propped up under the sheet, at his wrist encased in plaster. He wiggles his fingers while the rest of his body hums under a cloud of morphine.

"Commander? Did you understand what I told you?"

The doc's bright blue turban stands out against a fuzzy black and gray background, and for a few seconds, Steve thinks he's back in India. "I'd understand better," he says, breathing deeply on his oxygen mask, rolling his eyes in the direction of the IV bag. "If you reduced... the amount of juice you're giving me."

"That isn't a very good idea, Commander."

"I need to... think."

"You need to heal."

Steve remembers hobbling toward his dining room, but the image quickly fades away, pain spiking through his temples. 

"Give yourself some time, Commander. Helen will be here shortly and I'll see you during my next rounds."

"Wait," Steve rasps, his thoughts slipping away again. "My team..."

"I'm sure they will be here at the start of visiting hours. It's five in the morning; get some sleep. " 

***

Steve drifts above a warm fuzzy veil of drugs when he hears a familiar, annoyed voice. 

"I thought you said he was awake?"

"Commander McGarrett is on heavy medications; he was awake for several neuro checks –"

"And did he pass them?"

"Detective, if you do not lower your voice, I will have to ask you to leave."

"Danno... doesn't have an indoor voice," Steve mumbles, rubbing his face with his good hand.

Danny grips the railing. "Hey."

Steve manages only a half curl to his lips. "Hey." 

Releasing a breath, Danny leans closer, red-rimmed eyes studying him. "Look at you," he whispers. "How are you feeling?"

Danny deserves honesty and Steve needs it in return. "I've had better days." He licks tingling lips and tries slogging through the quicksand of his brain. "What's the sitrep?"

"Sitrep?"

"Status, Danny."

"That's why I'm here. Can you tell me what happened?"

The question ambushes Steve. He expected Danny to fill in the missing pieces, and the fact Danny can't, that it's up to Steve to provide them, sends a spike of fear through his chest. 

"Hey, take your time," Danny says softly then grimaces.

Danny must know how those words, _that tone_ , differentiates their roles, reinforcing the reason why Steve is flat on his back. He closes his eyes and resists the urge to sit up further in bed. "I only remember flashes."

"Do you recall faces? Type of clothes?"

"Nothing." But Steve's trained to recall intel and schematics during combat situations, to make snap decisions under insurmountable pressure, and he tries clearing his mind of the sludge. "We planned on barbequing. I was going to call you..." _He sees the movement out of the corner of his eye._ "They were waiting on me..." Steve digs his fingers in the sheets, biting his bottom lip in frustration. "It's all a damn blur."

"Okay, don't focus on details. Think shapes. Bodies. Can you count how many were in the room?"

"No," Steve says, angry.

"Hey, don't worry about it. You got your bell pretty rung and you're tired."

Steve battles the warmth in his veins as it slowly seeps into his muscles. "It's because of the shit they have me on."

"You need that shit, and don't scowl at me." Danny points an angry finger at Steve. "You have broken bones. Your kidneys might finally realize they belong to a crazy man and go on strike."

Danny rests his warm hand on Steve's bicep as his eyes drift close without his permission. He wants to ask about possible prints and points of entry, where the team is on motive, but it's not enough to keep him from falling asleep.

***

Steve stares at his leg underneath the sheet with half lidded eyes, concentrating on the flow of energy from his center, down his thigh, and into his injured knee. He breathes in and out, follows the pathway leading to fireballs of heat, and he latches onto them, at the nerves pulsating erratically – _there._

_Something heavy slams into the side of his knee and he crashes to the floor, his assailant's boot aiming for his face._

The sound of footsteps startles him and Steve jerks his head in response, igniting a flare of vertigo.

Chin walks over toward the bed looking frayed around the edges, his shoulders tense. "I heard they're putting you in a regular room later tonight."

"Yeah, it seems after two days in here, my kidneys finally pass muster," Steve says, pulling heavily on his oxygen. His bed is elevated at a low angle so he's sitting up straighter to improve his lung capacity. And he welcomes the sharp curl of pain it creates, curbing away the fog that keeps trying to swallow him whole. "They want me up and around tomorrow morning. After that we'll see."

"This isn't a race, brah."

"How's the case coming?"

"We canvassed your neighborhood and found out there was a cable van spotted several times in the area, but no one called for a repair. Danny followed up and interviewed the supervisor in charge, but there were no jobs scheduled in your area."

"It was surveillance." Steve had never noticed.

"That's what we're thinking. It could explain how they knew your alarm code."

Everyone keeps mentioning _them_ , or using the word _suspects_ , and Steve understands why his team thinks there were, but it only makes him bristle.

"It was one person."

Chin looks at him in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Steve says, flicking his eyes away. He clenches his jaw, wincing. The memories are always the same. One pair of fists, a single set of elbows striking him in the face, only one voice, but not words – he can never make out the words. "It was a single assailant," Steve says, chewing his lip. "He was highly efficient and trained."

"A pro."

"He had to be," Steve mutters.

"Danny and Kono are going over a list of possible suspects," Chin says, watching Steve. "Danny's been like a rabid dog about this. He had Fong work until four in the morning until he'd gone over every scrap of evidence for prints."

"He didn't find any."

"No."

It doesn't surprise Steve; everything about the attack has the tale-tell feel of an efficient op. 

He stares angrily at all the wires and tubes, at the tethers effectively chaining him in place. "Tell Danny to stand down if you have to. I don't want him doing anything stupid."

Chin shakes his head. "I doubt he'll listen. It's personal; he needs to do this."

Steve doesn't argue; he knows everything about need, knows way too fucking much. 

 

***

The transfer to a normal room includes the addition of a PCA pump and Steve stares at the dispenser. He's no stranger to pain; he adapted to the rigors of jumping out of helos and close quarter combat, learned to endure interrogation techniques – including the actual thing.

He's not inhuman or a masochist, but with pain comes clarity, and he applies the same techniques used enduring hours in near-frigid waters to overcome physical discomfort.

"You know glaring at the magic machine won't make it work."

Steve glances up to find Danny in his room. "What?"

"Do I need to press the button for you?"

"No," Steve snaps. 

Danny rolls his eyes. "You're worse than a grumpy bear with a hurt paw."

"I was busy thinking." 

"Oh, is that what you call zoning out like a zombie?"

"Some of us think harder than others."

"That's where you're missing the point." Danny slumps into the white plastic chair. He looks wrung out, with a wrinkled shirt and a couple days' worth of beard. "You're not supposed to be thinking; you're supposed to be resting."

"Like you obviously have? When's the last time you've slept?"

"I have this little thing called a job."

Danny leans over the railing and raises a hand to caress the side of Steve's jaw but stops at the last second to Steve's disappointment. "So what's that? You playing Pictionary with yourself?"

Steve looks down at the napkin and pencil on his lap, annoyed that he'd forgotten about them. "I was working on some stuff I remembered." 

He pushes over a napkin with two crude human-shaped sketches with arrows and numbers jotted on the sides.

"What am I staring at?" Danny asks. 

"I remember the angles from some of the punches. I can picture the guy's eyes, where his shoulders were in comparison to mine, the arm reach of some of his jabs. Based on that, I calculated his height and weight." Danny looks both amazed and horrified. "My best guess is we're after someone around six foot two to six foot three and around two hundred and twenty pounds."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"Not really. He had dark eyes, dark hair. Nothing distinctive."

"So we're looking for King Kong."

Steve crumples up the napkin with his good hand. His other wrist is throbbing. "Maybe."

"Hey? What's with that look?"

"I don't have a look. I'm thinking."

"And what did I say about that?"

But he can't shut down; he's not built like that. "Whoever did this was a professional; he didn't kill me."

"Yeah, it was some kind of message or warning." Danny rubs a hand across his face and lowers his voice. "He called me."

"Who?"

"Our suspect. He told me to come over and to call a bus."

Steve is furious. "Damn it. It could have been a trap!"

"Oh, really? You don't say, Steven! Do you think that didn't occur to me or that it even mattered? When I saw you on the floor..." He swallows, his expression faltering, and it hurts Steve to hear his voice break. "For a second, I thought you were dead."

Steve can't imagine what those horrifying seconds must have been like for Danny, and it makes him even angrier. But if someone put Steve in the hospital, what lengths would they go to ensure their message is heard loud and clear?

"Danny. You guys need to –"

"We're watching our backs, but you know what?" Danny leans over, his voice chilling. "They better watch their own asses. I don't care how well they think they covered their tracks, criminals make mistakes. And when I find these bastards, I'm going to nail them."

Steve has never seen Danny this willing to burn down the world except when it came to Grace. And he is struck silent by the weight of it all, and yeah, a little gratified, because he can't do anything to help. He can't walk or even stand for any length of time let alone help with the case. It pushes him into a place he's unfamiliar with, an area devoid of his control, of pure impotency.

***

Kono comes to see him, bringing magazines that she leaves on the table. "The scruff looks good on you, brah."

Steve's face itches, and he desperately wants to shave. "Don't get used to it." He's antsy and sore and his headache is back with a vengeance. "I go home in the morning and I'd really like to go over the case reports." 

Kono shifts in the chair and looks down at her lap. "I don't –"

"Just e-mail me the copies." Steve glances at the door and narrows his eyes at the undercover walking by. "I told Danny to dismiss the plainclothes guy the other day."

"He just wants peace of mind."

Steve clenches his jaw. "I don't need protection. Do you know how many ways I could take out a target in here?"

"I count a dozen," she says, giving the room a quick look. "Starting with the IV pole."

"The pole is a good choice, but it takes time to reach. If I pull the needle out of my hand I could cut open someone's jugular." Kono stares at him wide-eyed. "I might have made a mistake, but I can still defend myself."

"Mistake?" 

He stares at her confused. "What?"

"You said you made a mistake." Kono scrunches up her face. "You don't think –"

"I think Danny could make better use of manpower elsewhere," Steve interrupts.

"Well, by tomorrow morning, it won't matter."

Steve settles back against the bed and stares out at nothing, realizing he doesn't have a plan of action after being released, no goals – which is unsettling – so he lies there, planning his next uncertain steps. 

***

It's been four days since Danny vowed to hunt down those who hurt Steve, and four days later, he's no closer to finding the bastards. He sits inside the Camaro, scanning the hospital parking lot, wondering if the people responsible are laughing at them for getting away with it. 

 

***

Springing Steve from the hospital involves helping him dress in an old pair of sweatpants and a faded blue T-shirt, the exercise leaving Steve winded.

Danny keeps a hyper-vigilant view of the road, driving the speed limit, turning on Tenth Street to avoid construction and dozens of potholes. He watches Steve out of the corner of his eye, noticing how he never stops checking the rear-view mirror. Pulling into driveway, Danny hops out, and hurries over to the passenger side just as Steve stands and leans on the open door. 

"Would you grab my crutches?" 

"Maybe you should just let me help you and forgo the crutches, huh?" 

But Danny snags them from the backseat, handing them over while Steve adjusts them under his armpits.

"Using those things is barbaric," Danny mutters, sticking close. 

"I have a broken wrist," Steve huffs, pausing to take a breath and balance himself. "I have to put my weight on the armrests."

"And that's going to screw with your busted ribs." Danny fidgets, waiting to grab Steve if he falters. "We really should have rented a wheelchair –"

"I don't need a chair."

"Oh, really? I need a butcher's bill to keep up with the number of your damaged parts."

Steve's glare could melt asphalt. 

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm worried, okay? So sue me for actually caring if you trip and bust your big head open."

"I'm not going to crack my head." Steve sighs then irritably nods at Danny. "Think you could move?"

It takes a second for Danny to realize he's blocking the door. "Oh. Yeah. Hold on, let me take care of the security thing."

"That doesn't look like my alarm system."

"I might have had a new one installed," Danny says, quickly tapping in the code.

"You put in a new alarm system?"

"Obviously your last one sucked." 

The new system must meet with approval since Steve begins the trek inside. 

Steve pauses the moment he enters, his arms taut with strain. Clenching his jaw, he cranes his neck and stares behind the door, then over toward the living room. And before Danny can utter a word, Steve hobbles past the end table, stopping after only a few steps, his face a deep scowl.

"Steve?"

Steve wordlessly turns around, retracing his steps toward the door, breathing heavily from the effort.

"Are we really going to do this?" Danny asks.

Steve stands there like he might ignore him all day, but he slowly hobbles toward the sofa, cradling his side as he lowers himself against the cushions. "How did you... pay for the alarm?" 

"I have this thing called a credit card. You might have heard of one before."

"I'll pay you back."

"Maybe I don't want you to."

Danny activates the security system then goes into the kitchen, tossing Steve's pharmacy bags onto the counter.

"Do you think you could bring my piece from upstairs?" Steve calls out.

"I could," Danny says, walking back into the living room. "But do I need to remind you of the amount of painkillers floating around in your system?"

"I can assemble any weapon with my eyes closed."

"And I bet you hold some SEAL record." Danny rolls his eyes. He knows Steve can't stay home unprotected. "Fine. I'll get it after dinner."

But instead of looking pleased, Steve gets that faraway look, the one that means he's burying his answers inside. Danny sighs, crouching next to the sofa. "I thought we were past the part where you have to play the tough guy with me?"

Steve grits his teeth, looking down at himself, clenching his jaw even tighter. "Look, I know I'm not functioning at a hundred percent and that I'm going to need some _assistance_ for a while. I get that."

God, this is killing him. Danny wants to layer every inch of Steve's skin with his lips, ensure the only time he hears Steve's voice hoarse like that is from pleasure. But he stops from acting on his desire, on his desperate, desperate need, because Danny doesn't even know where to kiss or touch that isn't tender or marred.

"I should probably, you know, make us lunch. I haven't eaten since last night."

Steve gives him this hard look, of either hurt or anger, or both. And Danny hurries toward the kitchen to avoid it.

 

***

Cooking his grandma's vegetable soup requires the whole kitchen island, two cutting boards, and most of the produce from the refrigerator. 

Danny chops onions, blinking against the sting to his eyes when he hears Steve curse. "Hey. What are you –"

"I'm good," Steve huffs. "Just grabbed a box of case files and I...I bent wrong."

More like Steve bent his body period. 

"Have you been staying here the whole time?" Steve asks a second later.

Danny stops chopping, oddly nervous. "Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"You're always welcomed here. You know that."

Danny thinks he does, but it's not like what he and Steve have been doing for some time has ever come up for discussion. After Rachel, Danny didn't want to complicate things with definitions. And Steve – well, he never pushed the issue and quickly changed topics any time Danny casually brought up their relationship, both of them hovering in the safety of blissful denial.

He pushes all his random musing aside and listens to Steve rummaging through another box. "I seem to remember the good doctor telling you to take it easy."

"I can still read."

Danny rolls his eyes and he grabs his first potato to peel. "I have a system so don't mess it up."

"I'm going through your top list of suspects now."

Danny did that already and he still has dozens to investigate, and it takes time to wait for warrants on bank records that might lead to a payment for _services rendered._ This is why he asked Toast for help. A possible money trail is the only thing they can chase without physical evidence. 

He doesn't realize he's practically mangled his poor spud with his peeler until he looks down at the remains. Wiping his hands, he wanders toward the living room, only to discover Steve studying his laptop that had been left on the coffee table. 

"What are you...?" Danny's cheeks burn red in shock when he sees the screen. "What the hell? Those are the photos we took of you in the hospital! Why are you looking at them for fuck's sake?"

"Bruising patterns."

"Bruising patterns?" 

"People normally punch with their fist. But these..." Steve clicks on the images of his battered face without emotion. "These are the result of elbow strikes. There's no discoloration from individual knuckles." He taps on another thumbnail. "It's the same with the ones to my abdomen. Only a knee blow has enough kinetic energy to crack ribs. And the one to my throat is from a nerve pressure point. I had a sparring partner once that sported the exact same –"

"That's nice," Danny says, his stomach twisting inside out. He can't stand looking them. "You can turn it off now."

But Steve doesn't let it go, his voice hollow, like he's discussing any other case. "Most military hand-to-hand emphasizes the quickest way to take out your opponent. There's a thin line between incapacitation and lethal force."

"Yeah. Your point? We already knew we weren't looking for your average street thug."

Steve looks down at the screen, his left eye twitching. "There's even a thinner line to make someone wish they were dead without actually killing them."

Danny's throat closes up on him for a second and he swallows roughly, holding in the fire raging in his belly. It's obvious Steve is unaware of the implication of what he just said. That he just admitted to the true amount of pain pounded into him, a pain that, like a good soldier, Steve will try to work through in silence. 

Danny wants to shake him, tell him to stop it, to let Danny in. But he knows it won't happen, that Steve has refortified his defenses, built them up so much that even he isn't aware how high. And that makes Danny's anger burn even more, anger with no outlet except to unleash it on those responsible for this nightmare.

Clearing his throat, Danny looks Steve in the eye, forcing the anger down. He can't catch the bastards if he doesn't focus. "So, we're not looking for someone who is highly skilled, but _super_ skilled. Elite military or a professional fighter."

"Yeah. And that's a very short list."

But even the shortest list requires a starting a point. 

Danny looks over at Steve, notices the pain lines around his face, and knows how bad reading amplifies concussions. He gently closes the laptop. "Come on. We need to eat." Steve grips the edge of the computer as if he might not relinquish it. "You just got home. And while you'll plow along on this case despite my protests, I doubt you'll make much headway if you don't pace yourself."

Steve wants to fight, Danny can tell, because that is what he does, but Steve lets go and stares at Danny through bruised eyelids. "Yeah, okay."

Danny doesn't have the mastery over his words right now, afraid they'll get swept away by the overwhelming force of emotions he can barely control. So he grits his teeth and focuses on getting through tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after that. 

 

***

They go to bed early. Danny has been like bloodhound running around in circles in search of a scent for days and he's dead on his feet.

Steve conked out soon after lunch and Danny feels bad about waking him, but sleeping on the sofa is out of the question. "It's just a few steps."

Steve staggers to his feet without his crutches, his eyes at half-mast from a combo of painkillers and muscle relaxants. He doesn't protest when Danny slips a hand around his waist, savoring the feel of Steve's body against his as they inch into the guest room and toward the bed. 

"I can dress myself," Steve mumbles.

"You mean undress, you goof." Steve looks at him with the most befuddled expression and Danny runs a hand fondly down the left side Steve's face. "Let's leave the T-shirt on, but you need to take off your sweats." But Steve is a little uncoordinated and Danny begins tugging on the fabric. "Here, let me."

Danny helps removes the sweatpants, checking to see that the knee brace is secure before he carefully swings Steve's legs on to the mattress. 

"Thanks," Steve says, his head settled into the pillows. 

"Before you get too comfy, let me prop up your knee."

Danny remembers the difficultly of sleeping after he first tore his ACL and it makes him feel marginally better to know all the tricks in the book so he can help.

"If you have to get up in the middle of the night, wake me," he says, lifting up Steve's leg and sliding a pillow under it. "You're going to need help getting out of bed for a few days. Hey? Are you listening?"

But Steve is out for the count and Danny just stands there, savoring every moment of watching Steve's chest rise and fall, of listening to him breathe. Then he quickly strips out of his clothes, crawls into bed, and curls close enough to feel Steve's warmth radiate through his T-shirt.


	2. Chapter Two

***

 

A sound startles Danny – a pained gasp next to his ear. Before he becomes fully alert, a hand smacks him in the nose, and he sits up just as Steve's left arm flails out, striking Danny on the shoulder. 

"Babe," he whispers, not touching. Never touching. 

When Steve sucks in another breath, Danny bites his lip. "Steve," he says a little louder.

Steve grimaces, the lines around his eyes doubling, his head jerking to the side.

Danny hates this, and he takes a deep breath and does what's needed before Steve hurts himself.  
"McGarrett, wake up," he says firmly.

Steve's eyes fly open.

"It's okay, you're okay," Danny says soothingly. He's done this before. "Do you know where you are?" But Steve doesn't answer, his breathing fast and rapid. "You're home in Hawaii. If you look around, you'll notice a dresser that is spotlessly clean and the lamp your sister broke when you were nine."

"I...I know where I am," Steve says, his voice rough. "It's...it was just a nightmare. Nothing else."

Danny leans closer, watching Steve's face. His eyes are steady, they don't dart around the room in confusion, but they reflect an odd uncertainty. "Do you know what day it is?"

"No." There's an edge of fear in Steve's voice.

"Okay, that's okay," Danny says reassuringly. "It's Wednesday. Do you know the date?"

"The twentieth?"

Danny frowns. "No, it's the fourth."

"Right. Head's just a little foggy."

"Well, you're bound to have even a few more screws loose than before, which is saying a lot." But Danny can't settle back down just yet and he keeps checking on Steve with a glance.

 

"I'm good, Danny."

"Steve."

"Do you want me to recite my rank and social security number?"

"Fine," Danny agrees reluctantly. "Go back to sleep, but I'll expect your rank and social in the morning."

*** 

It's a little after one when Danny feels Steve's body stiffen next to him, hears his breath hitch, then quicken. "You hurting?"

"Yeah," Steve whispers.

Danny climbs out of bed and returns with crackers, water, and a pill. He helps Steve sit up to eat and wordlessly helps him lie back down when he's done. And Danny falls back asleep only after Steve's breathing evens out. 

***

Steve wakes up two more times despite the medication. Pain, another nightmare. It doesn't matter. Danny talks to him about Grace, the ocean, where he wants to eat next week, everything and anything until Steve's eyes flutter closed in exhaustion.

***

By sunrise, Danny is wide awake from lack of sleep and hops in the shower until the hot spray eases away the knots in his shoulders. He changes into his dress shirt and slacks, and towel dries his hair, wishing he could stay home.

He checks on Steve to find him awake with his short hair all tussled. 

"Hey. I'm meeting with Denning today, but I think I'll ditch everything else and work from here when I'm done."

"You're meeting with the governor?"

"I'm filling in for your big shoes, pal." Danny grimaces. "I told you yesterday."

Steve nods, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes. "Yeah, I remember."

"Oh, and I brought down your Sig," Danny says. "I put it in the nightstand drawer next you."  
Steve gives him a grateful look, but Danny's gut still twinges with anxiety. "Look. I doubt this meeting will last past lunch, but I can still whip you up a quick breakfast and bring it to you."

"I'm not bedridden, Danny. I can cook my own eggs."

"Well, just in case you spend the day resting like you should, I left a six pack of water on the nightstand; the doc said you need to drink plenty of fluids."

"Go to work," Steve says testily. "I'll be fine."

Danny hesitates. Steve is far from a hundred percent; hell, he's not even firing on half cylinders and his gut fills with dread at the idea of leaving him alone. 

Steve pushes himself up with a grunt, fixing Danny with one of his hundred-yard stares. "I'm a trained member of one of the most elite military teams in the world. Even if I had two broken legs, I could –." 

"Whoa, whoa, settle down." Danny holds out his hands against Steve's ire. "Maybe I should dig out the toolbox so you can fix the leaky shower head."

"Go," Steve says, giving him a tired smile. "Tell Denning not to cut our ammo budget."

"Then don't use so much," Danny huffs. 

He grabs his car keys from the living room and walks outside. Entering in the alarm code, Danny scans up and down the street for anything suspicious. Chewing on his lip, he yanks out his cell phone, knowing he's going to piss Steve off, but he dials HPD and requests a patrol car to sit outside while he gone. Steve can yell at him later.

***

Steve lies there, listening to the sounds of morning, creaky shutters, birds, and ocean waves lapping the sand through the open window. Endless peace. But he won't languish in bed and give in to the forces that put him here. He carefully swings his legs over, his bad knee protesting against the movement, bursts of pain mapping out every inch of his body.

There is a clean T-shirt on the chair next to the bed, and he struggles to put it on, clumsily sliding his arms and clunky cast through the sleeves. But he can't stop moving, so Steve uses the edge of the nightstand to slowly get to his feet. His vision grays out, and he breathes in and out until the pain abates, his death grip on the nightstand the only thing keeping him vertical. 

Danny left his crutches next to the nightstand, and Steve waits a second, ensuring he has the stamina to move, and hobbles closer to grab them. It takes longer than expected for him to make it into the bathroom, and Steve balances between his crutches, eying the shower greedily, forced to admit defeat since he can't navigate it right now.

But he can shave, and he leans against the sink, his left hand planted on the counter while he applies gel to his face with his right fingertips. The cast weighs down his aching wrist, and the razor trembles with every swipe down his cheek, so he grips it even tighter to keep it steady.

He rinses his face with a washcloth and studies his reflection, at the blue-purple mark around his throat, recognizing the results of squeezing the subclavian nerve _just so_. Steve counts the number of bruises smashed into his face, fists he could have prevented if he'd blocked the grip to his neck, jabbed his attacker in the eyes, or used any dozen other defensive moves.

Clenching his jaw, Steve snags his crutches and gingerly goes down the hallway, the stretch to his ribs excruciating. But he forces down the ache and hobbles past the dining room and into the kitchen, balancing unsteadily with his crutches to open the refrigerator door. Breakfast won't be eggs; the idea of gathering everything needed to make them is too much trouble. 

A quart of organic strawberry yogurt and dry toast is the most he can manage. He can't carry his food and use his crutches at the same time, so he leans one against the kitchen island, and limps heavily with the left crutch, panting heavily as he slides his beaten body into a chair in the dining room. 

_Buck it up, sailor, he thinks._ The voice inside his head sounds a lot like Joe's.

His prescriptions are lined up on the table and Steve shakes out one of each: pain pill, antibiotic, iron supplement, but forgoes the muscle relaxants. He hates how it interacts with the Percocet. In the distance, he hears his cell phone buzz from the bedroom but lets it ring because he doesn't have it in him to hobble over there to pick it up. 

It rings again five minutes later, but Steve is too busy staring at the salt- and peppershakers beside the empty yogurt quart. He curls his fingers around the glass, a rush of endorphins flowing through his veins. 

Biting his lip, Steve struggles to his feet using the table for balance, his pulse racing in his ears. He squeezes the saltshaker in his hand, remembers the sharp smacking sound of it against bone, of the pained grunt from his attacker. 

Steve stares at the dead space in front of him, sweat trickling down his face, his chest uncomfortably tight. He had a weapon. So, why didn't he drive the damn thing over and over again into the guy's face? Until there was nothing left but blood and –

A muscle spasm seizes his back, like a knife into deep muscle. Steve stumbles, bending half his body over the dining room table. His mouth goes dry, a buzzing rings inside his ears, and Steve tries to hold on, wait it out, wait for the warmth spreading beneath his skin to take over. 

_"Your team will suffer. Ms. Kalakaua, Mr. Kelly, and Mr. Williams. Their family, their friends. No one will be safe."_

No, no, no, no, no.

_"I love you, Son. I didn't say it enough –"_

Steve sucks in shuddered breath and tries calming his racing heart. He cautiously stands back up, grabbing his crutch, and looks around for the other one when he hears a knock at the door. Tensing, he uses the table to limp forward, then the hutch in the living room, and the recliner. There's another loud knock, followed by the sound of keys, and Steve leans all his weight on his good leg, raising his crutch like a baseball bat.

The door opens and Steve stops himself from swinging when Kono walks inside.

"Whoa, it's just me," she says, staring at him from the doorway. 

"Kono." Steve lowers his crutch and leans against it with one arm over the recliner. "What are you doing here?"

"Danny sent me over to check up on you." Kono closes the door. "He gave me his key and the code to the alarm."

"He only left a couple of hours ago."

"Yeah, but you didn't answer your phone." She bites her lip, staring at him with hesitant eyes, like he's about to keel over. "He got worried."

"I'm fine," Steve grunts, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Not if you keep walking around like that," she says, nodding at him.

"I left my other crutch in the kitchen when you knocked."

Kono shakes her head and offers him a shoulder. "Come on, I bet sitting is more comfortable."

He allows her to help him over toward the sofa and she even grabs him by the elbows, lowering him into the cushions with minimal pain. His meds must have kicked in.

Walking into the kitchen, Kono returns with his crutch, resting it at the end of the sofa with the other one. "Your knee hurts like a bitch because all that fluid has nowhere else to go. If you don't keep your weight off your knee, it'll cause the swelling to go up."

"Yes, ma'am," he says with all sincerity. Steve knows Kono learned about these things the hard way. "I'll be more careful."

Kono sits on the recliner and pulls out her phone. "I'll let Danny know you're in one piece," she says, texting. "He's still stuck with the governor. He thinks this whole Moreno thing is going to be bigger than we first thought."

Steve's stomach drops. "What did you say?"

"What?"

"Just now."

Kono stares at him, confused. "That the whole Moreno case is going to be bigger than we thought?"

Steve brushes his hand over his neck. 

_"End your investigations into Moreno's operations. End them now or face even more consequences."_

"Steve?" Kono whispers, worried. "What is it?"

"Moreno." Steve swallows, his heart thumping against his breastbone, a sharp, cold certainty settling like a stone in his gut. "He's the one who sent someone to my house."

"Are you sure?"

His jaw aches, a horrible sensation that spreads past his teeth and up into his temples.

"I was told to end our investigation into Moreno's operations or suffer the consequences." His stomach twists. "He threatened you, Chin, and Danny." Steve reaches for his laptop, but he stops short when his ribs twinge painfully. "Could you?"

Kono brings over his computer so he can take it. "I don't understand. We haven't even started our investigation into Moreno."

"I don't know." He has no clue, this whole angle blindsiding him. "We've been so busy taking on that new Tong faction that I had planned on going through the files Denning sent over the day before our meeting."

Steve logs onto the Five-O servers and starts scanning the documents related to the operation Denning wanted them to launch. "A friend of the governor's from the Federal Bureau of Narcotics warned him when they learned Moreno had moved to the island a month ago."

"Didn't Danny bring over some files to review before the meeting with Denning?" Kono doesn't wait for Steve to answer and she starts rummaging through the boxes in the living room. "Wait. This looks like something," she says, grabbing a manila folder. 

Steve's head feels like it is spinning. "We need to update Danny. Where's Chin?"

"He's at HQ."

Okay, that's good, that's a secure location. Steve rubs a hand over his face, trying to keep all his thoughts in order. "Let him know we have a suspect in the case. Don't let him go anywhere without back-up."

"He was on his way to meet Danny when I was driving over here." Kono rapidly types into her cell phone. "I just texted Danny again to call us."

Steve nods. "Good."

Now all he needs to do is take control over the situation. 

 

***

Steve scans hundreds of pages on Antonio Moreno's file, forced to read each word slower than normal, the print blurring around the edges. But this is intel and he's hit the jackpot.

"Seems like Moreno's built up quite the empire," Kono tells him. "He had his hands in the coca bushes, refinement, and the distribution of a large coke operation. Not to mention money laundering, a little arms dealing, and oh, he loves fine art."

"Yeah, he apparently owns an impressive number of frescos." Steve blinks at his screen. "Then there's the list of local law enforcement. For those he didn't bribe, Moreno intimidated. Over a ten year period, there were over a dozen high level police captains and lieutenants who were put in the hospital or had family members die in car bombs, house fires."

Kono looks at him, schooling her features for a beat too long. "Why not just kill those in his way?"

"Even in Colombia that would attract attention and the military would go in. But if you silence the enemy –"

"You control them." Kono walks over, fixing Steve with the fiercest determined look. "But he's never met us before."

He gives her a half smile. "No, he hasn't."

"So, maybe he has a list of associates he's used in the past?"

Steve glances down at his computer, the light from the screen like needles in his eyes. He presses the heel of his hand to his temple. Kono looks over at him, chewing her lip, but her cell rings before she can say anything. 

He half listens to the very short conversation before Kono walks over. "Hey, Danny wants to talk to you," she says, handing him the phone.

_"What the hell, Steve? I leave for a couple of hours, no, three hours, and you have this grand revelation like Moses or something?"_

"It's him. It was Moreno."

Danny pauses, his breathing harsh. _"Are you sure?"_

"I don't remember the attacker's face, but his message?" Steve stares at the kitchen. "Yeah."

_"Babe. You were hit **a lot.** You have a concussion."_

"Danny." Steve sucks in a breath. "I'm positive."

He can envision Danny's eyes filling with burning vengeance. His voice is a throaty promise. _"Then we'll rain hell down on his ass."_

***

 

Danny paces in the lobby area, Denning's secretary non-subtly glancing at him from her desk. Tired of waiting for Chin inside, he makes his way through the building, brusquely apologizing to someone he accidentally bumps against in his haste. Throwing open the door, he blinks against the sunshine, blood thrumming in his ears, a restless pulse of energy making him sweat.

His cell beeps again and he pulls it out, reading another update from Kono regarding Moreno's recent known associates. He's just finished scrolling through the e-mail when he spots Chin hurrying over.

"Hey, sorry it took me so long, there was an accident on Meheula Parkway."

"Did you try flashing your lights?" 

Chin shoots him a 'what the fuck' look and Danny shakes his head. "I'm sorry. It's just..." But his brain and mouth don't connect right. He switches mental gears. "Did you get Kono's e-mails?"

"Yeah, I read them sitting in traffic." Chin glances at the building in frustration. "Too bad the feds didn't brief us ahead of time about Moreno's MO. What did the governor say?"

"That we have full power and the HPD's resources to take out Moreno's operation."

"Okay. So, we're talking the whole nine yards. Full twenty-four hour surveillance, wire taps, hack into all electronic files."

"Yeah. That, too."

Danny watches Chin's lips thin into a hard line and knows that he gets it, understands exactly what Danny means without words.

"But first, maybe a proper introduction is in order," Chin says, holding Danny's gaze. "One Moreno won't forget."

"Like what happens to scumbags who think they can come out here and hurt one of our own."

"Exactly."

Anticipation fills Danny's chest, a burst of nervous energy and twisted desire to come face to face with the man he wants so desperately to hurt in the slowest possible manner. "Denning has had a couple guys from narcotics tailing Moreno since last week. I bet we could get his location in minutes."

Chin pulls out his cell. "I'll call them right now. Let's pay Antonio Moreno a visit."

***

Driving at eighty miles per hour does not help release tension; in fact, it only increases the knots in his shoulders. Chin raises his eyebrows from the passenger seat. 

"Are Rachel and Grace still out of town visiting family?"

"Yeah." Thank goodness, Danny thinks. "For the next two weeks." 

"With the last few cases, I think Kono and I need to catch up on things. Maybe I'll invite her over for a few days to stay with me."

Danny meets Chin's eyes, aware of what they're about to do and the need to close ranks. "I'll be over at Steve's until he's better."

"I wouldn't expect anything less, brah."

Danny parks across the street of an elaborate studio, his anger churning. "I can't believe we're at some artist opening."

"Apparently, Moreno sponsored this event." Chin gets out of the car and slides on his vest. "Duke and some of the boys are parked half a block away. They'll pull into position when we go in and provide back-up if we give them the signal."

***

The moment they enter the lobby, a large guard dressed in a tux steps in front of Danny. "Invitation?"

"Yeah, here it is." Danny shoves his badge into the guard's face.

The guy doesn't flinch, his eyes darting down at the badge before he taps his earpiece. "Be advised, we have a couple of cops at the door. I think they're looking for donations." He chuckles.

Danny smacks the badge against guard's nose. "This reads the Five-O Task Force. Get used to hearing that name."

Chin walks beside Danny as they enter the small reception hall, men and women dressed in suits and cocktail dresses all turn to watch them enter, whispering anxiously to each other. Danny strolls to the middle of the room, a hand resting on the butt of his weapon.

"I am Detective Danny Williams and this is Lieutenant Chin Ho Kelly of Five-O," he announces, holding up his badge. "We're looking for Antonio Moreno, drug lord and murderer." He scans the crowd of shocked faces. "Certainly everyone in Hawaii's high society is aware of who they've been wheeling and dealing with?"

Chin pulls out his cellphone. "Smile for the camera. You are all now what we call persons of interest."

Human behavior is predictable. Those scurrying for the exits have something to hide and the confused idiots left standing around are either clueless or don't give a shit about their reputations.

But Moreno isn't in sight, and Danny scans the crowd wondering if the bastard slipped out the back, when he spots a short squat man, flanked by several goons, walking toward them. Moreno is a slime ball with wisps of thinning hair and a pudgy belly that hangs slightly over his belt. 

It takes everything, every single ounce of strength, not to punch him in the face. 

"Gentlemen." Moreno smiles with all lips and no teeth, his accent heavy. "What can I do for Hawaii's finest?"

"What can you do?" Danny snarls, balling his hands into fists to keep from wrapping them around the bastard's throat. "Drop dead for starters. But I'd settle for a confession regarding your most recent illegal activities, not including drug running, embezzlement, murder, attempted murder –"

Moreno barks out a high-pitched laugh that grates on Danny's ears, and the bastard gives him the cockiest smile. This is just a game to him. He's gotten away with countless murders, killed cops and their families. "I have no idea what you are referring to...Detective?"

"Williams, Danny Williams," he grits through his teeth, his chest tight and getting tighter. "Do you need me to spell it?" 

"No, that is quite all right." Moreno flicks his wrist, checking his thousand dollar Rolex, never bothering to look Danny in the eye. "All I want, Detective, is for you and..."

"Lieutenant Chin Ho Kelly, although I'm positive you already knew that."

Moreno drags his gaze from his watch, looking up at Danny and Chin with callous blue eyes, his features wrinkling in irritation, as if they've already wasted enough of his time. "I am sorry; I have never had the pleasure. But if local law enforcement wanted to speak to me, I'm sure you could have done so through proper channels instead of crashing a charity event."

"Charity," Danny hisses, his rage slowly boiling at such casual dismissal. "Really?"

"Yes, for local artists. In fact, I could have written a check and donated in your name." Moreno's smile slowly fades his accent thickening. "But after rudely interrupting my party and embarrassing my guests, I think I will ask you to leave."

"Guests? You mean your newly found associates?" Danny asks, waving his hand around some of the lingering crowd watching them. "By stepping into this building, you've put all your guests under HPD surveillance," he says loudly for everyone to hear.

Several more people quietly slip away while Chin makes a show of capturing everyone on film with his cell camera. Danny wishes they would all just go – leave Moreno and his goons alone with him and Chin and a chance at ending this right here. Right now. No one would ask any questions. 

He steps closer, close enough to count the liver spots on Moreno's neck, smell the Cuban cigar scent off his clothes. "The life you love so much is over. If you make a phone call, we'll know every detail. If you drive to a fast food joint, we'll know if you like pickles or mustard on your burger. If you forget to wash your hands in the john, we'll know that, too."

Chin flanks Moreno, his voice deadly. "From now until you've been arrested, every person you meet with, e-mail, or talk to on the phone will have a new shadow. If someone bumps into you on the sidewalk, expect their life to be turned upside down."

Both of Moreno's goons move to protect this boss, but Moreno gestures them to stay put, his facade perfectly untouched by the boiling rage around him.

"See, we got your _message_ ," Danny growls, his skin tight and hot. "Now, you have ours. We're going to tear your life apart. Bit by bit. And whenever you turn, we'll be there. Not only do you have to worry about Five-O, but every other law enforcement officer on the island. See, we've been given a blank check to dismantle your drug program."

Moreno doesn't react; the only sign of his annoyance is the slight tic in his left eye. "I'm sorry, but I think you have me confused with someone else. Now, if you gentlemen are done?" He smiles smarmily. "I'd like to return to my event to ensure that this island's great culture has the support it deserves."

"You do that," Danny says, grinding his teeth until they creak. 

Moreno starts walking away, but he pauses, turning around. "By the way, I don't recall the governor's task force being such a small entity. It would be a shame if it became permanently short-handed."

Something inside Danny snaps and he lunges at Moreno before his brain can react. But Chin steps in front of him, holding him back, arms straining. "Don't," he hisses in Danny's ear. "We did what we came here for. Don't play into Moreno's hands. He wants this reaction. Don't give it to him."

Danny bites his lip, wanting nothing more than to bash Moreno's face in, but backs down, panting, and Chin slowly drops his hand. 

Swallowing, Danny stares at Moreno, reining in his breathing. "Have you ever played with dynamite? That's what you did, you son of a bitch. And I can't wait until it explodes and what's left is a smoldering pile of ash."

"It depends whose face it explodes in, doesn't it, Detective?"

This time when Moreno smiles, it sends a shiver down Danny's spine, because he knows the man has no problem following through with his veiled threat. 

***

Danny drags himself out of the Camaro, and even though a patrol unit is parked a block down the road, he walks the perimeter around the house, then goes toward the door to punch in the alarm code. He walks inside the living room, his pulse doubling when he notices all the lights are out. 

He quickly pulls his Heckler and Koch and huffs out a relived breath after spotting Kono coming out of the kitchen. "Jesus," he says, holstering his weapon. "What's with the lights?"

Kono presses a finger against her lips in a hushing motion, pointing at the sofa. Danny glances down at Steve's long form resting among the cushions, his leg propped up under a light blanket, his face slack and peaceful. The sight sends a pang through Danny's chest. Careful of the creaky floorboards, he follows Kono into the kitchen, the scent of pizza causing his stomach to growl.

"Sorry about that," Kono tells him. "Steve got a bad headache, so I ordered food so he could take his pills."

"How long has he been out?"

"Maybe two hours."

"Thanks for staying."

Kono crosses her arms. "Next time, I want in when you crash one of Moreno's gigs," she says, irritated. But her face softens. "We did get lot of work done. And I was glad I was here."

Danny really loves Kono more than she could ever know. "Yeah. I noticed my in-box was full."

"The CIA had a lot of files on Moreno. And please, brah. You know better than me what it's like trying to talk Steve out of something when he's all locked and loaded."

"Yeah, I do." Danny looks toward the living room and back at Kono. "Thanks again. Um, by the way, Chin wants you to drive by his place and stay over for a bit."

"You guys rattled Moreno's chain pretty hard, huh?"

"Rattled, yanked, and used it to choke him."

Kono nods, her eyes gleaming. "Good."

***

Danny re-heats three slices of pizza, grabs a beer from the refrigerator and the morning crossword, and leaves the kitchen to sit in the dining room. Tired, his pen accidentally slips from his fingers, and he bends down to pick it up, his eyes drifting across the floor where he had found Steve busted and bruised. Danny doesn't have time to process the anger it ignites in his belly before he hears the unmistakable sound of crutches thumping around. 

Grabbing his Longboard, he walks into the living room to find Steve staring out the window. "Wouldn't it be easier to spy on your neighbors with the light on?"

"There's a uni watching the house."

Danny walks over, exhaustion nibbling at his bones as he switches on the lamp. "Yeah."

"I spotted a second patrol car drive by a few seconds ago." Steve lets the curtain fall and he turns his head, shadows obscuring most of his face. "You and Chin went on radio silence earlier today. Did you begin your surveillance on Moreno?"

"Time tables, targets, you name it."

But Steve isn't paying attention to him, his weighty gaze focused at Danny's hip. "Why are you armed?"

"Maybe I was too tired to take it off after running around all day."

"Really?"

It's been a long day and Danny isn't in the mood to be interrogated. "Yeah, really."

"I asked you a simple question and you avoiding it."

"No, I actually did answer, you just decide it wasn't what you wanted to hear. So, enough with the paranoia."

Steve limps further into the middle of the room, the bruises around his eyes accenting his darkening expression. "There's a uni parked outside the house and you're walking around strapped."

"And you were attacked in your own home on account of some vicious drug lord who doesn't have a problem killing cops," Danny snaps. "Or did you forget?"

Steve leans heavily on his crutches, his voice ragged. "I don't remember a damned thing about the assailant's face. So yeah, I guess I did."

Danny feels gut punched, and he stares at Steve's livid expression, at the anger and hurt and guilt bubbling beneath the surface. He takes a breath, tries blowing out some of the same heated emotions. "I have my weapon on me because Chin and I launched our investigation into Moreno hours ago and we might have left a very lasting impression."

"What kind of a lasting impression?"

Danny runs a hand through his disheveled hair. He doesn't want to do this – go a few rounds with Steve, who shouldn't be making demands while looking so pale. 

"What kind of impression?" Steve repeats like he's talking to a damn suspect. 

"One he won't soon forget." Danny feels his hackles rise when Steve glares at him, like Steve owns the right to act reckless. "Don't give me that disapproving look. I don't need it. And would you please, _please_ , sit down so we can have a discussion like two rational human beings?"

"I'm not sitting down, and you still haven't answered the question."

"Chin and I might have busted up one of Moreno's art openings."

"You busted up his art opening?"

"To introduce ourselves," Danny feels the need to add.

"Why the hell would you do such a thing?" Steve demands, incredulous. "Paint a damn target on your chest like that?"

"I've already got a target on my chest, Steve," Danny snaps. "Everyone on the team does. Moreno just went for the head of the snake first."

"What about Grace and Rachel? Not to mention Kono and Chin's relatives? This guy hasn't hesitated going after families."

"When have we ever backed down? Never." Danny inches closer to Steve, his face flushing hot. "And if it had been the other way around, and Moreno went after me instead of you, would you have stayed inside some van taking pictures? Or would you have gone for the throat?"

"I operate with a totally different set of risk factors –"

"No!" Danny can't believe his ears. "You cannot have it both ways. You can't criticize my choice of tactics because of the risk while setting the bar higher for yourself; it doesn't work like that way. We are a team and we –"

"I'm the head of Five-O and that means you need to run things up the chain of the command first."

"Seriously? You're pulling the chain of command card out? I hate to break it to you, but you're not a part of the team right now, Steven. You're in the hurt locker, not on active duty, not commander of the battlefield. You're the walking wounded; a crime victim."

Danny stands there simmering, his blood boiling beneath his skin, his heart slamming against his breastbone. He waits for Steve to say something, argue with him using some twisted brand of McGarrett logic.

Steve clenches his jaw so tight the bones protrudes sharply from his cheeks, his body trembling either from adrenaline, or exhaustion, maybe a volatile mix of both. But Danny notices the moment Steve goes stoic military, face flattening hard, and he looks past Danny like he's not standing right in front of him. 

It pisses him off when Steve locks him out, raising his blood pressure through the roof, but the moment Steve starts walking away from him – that's the moment when Danny loses it.

"What are you doing?" But Steve continues his grueling trek down the hall; his crutches banging loudly, Danny following close behind. 

Steve can't even hobble in a straight line, his movement's jerky. 

"Look at yourself, what do you think you can accomplish, huh? Someone needed to do _something_ , Steve. Do you think Chin, Kono, or I could just stand by after what that asshole did to you?"

It takes Steve forever to find the right balance while trying to open the bedroom door, his right clutch clattering to the floor. Out of instinct, Danny hurries over to help. 

"Don't!" Steve yells, seething, his eyes bloodshot. "You pick up that crutch and I'll –"

"And you'll what?"

But Danny doesn't take another step forward, and Steve finally manages to work the knob, clumsily limping inside and somehow finding a way to slam the door behind him. 

"Fine! It's not like I haven't slept on the sofa before."

He's caught between barging in and standing there listening to Steve shuffle around and curse. Danny curls his fingers around the doorknob, battling a furious tug-of-war with himself, but in the end he lets his hand drop, his blood too hot, his heart too bruised to enter the trenches again tonight. And he walks away, leaving Steve to lick his wounds alone. 

Danny takes out his weapon and lays it on the coffee table within easy reach before settling into the sofa. The cushions are still warm from where Steve slept and Danny ignores the wave of guilt it stirs inside his chest. Picking up the TV remote, he channel surfs, knowing despite exhaustion, it'll be a while before he can fall asleep.

***

Steve limps awkwardly inside the bedroom, his pulse a drum banging in his ears, a lump of hot-white hostility lodged inside his chest. A sharp pain rides up his side and he gives up the other crutch to gravity, grabbing the nearest bedpost, all his weight on his good leg.

He rests his head against the cool wood, the headache from earlier roaring back, making it difficult to think, to piece together what just happened. And he's better at that, at focusing on the objective while tuning the world out. 

There is an HPD squad car parked across from the house, and he knows the men inside have been given a job to do, to follow an oath to protect and serve. That assignment has been Steve's duty to carry out for most of his life, a duty he'd performed in the Navy and a member as Five-O, one that he has never failed – until now.

Danny doesn't feel safe enough in Steve's home without his weapon, and that hurts like a slow twisting knife to the gut, to be seen as a liability, a hindrance, someone who can't protect his team, his loved ones. 

Steve limps towards the bathroom and flips on the light switch, squinting against the bright-white harshness. He stands in front of the mirror and looks at the man who couldn't prevent his father's murder, at the SEAL who couldn't stop the tragedy in Jonglei or the fuck up during the op in Konduz. 

Breathing hard, he hobbles back into the bedroom, the world tilting upside down. But he finds the dresser for balance, the bedpost, and drags himself onto the bed, biting off a grunt when he pulls his leg over, the rest of his body still humming from his last dose of meds. 

Steve lies there haphazardly on top of the blankets and sheets, his eyes squeezed closed against the spinning sensation in the room. He swallows against the nausea bubbling up in his stomach and the sharp ache to his temples. He yanks at his T-shirt one-handed, wanting to peel the damn thing off, but he lacks the energy to fight with it. So he drapes an arm over his eyes and tries blocking out the noise, the pain, and a voice in his head reprimanding him for sinking this low.

***

_The whistles blows again and Steve runs back across the sand, the air filled with M4 fire, the master chief yelling, "grab the boats and get them in the surf!"_

_He hefts the boat over his head, working in unison with his teammates, paddling hundreds of yards into the icy Pacific. Dig and row, lift and carry, dump and right the boat, swim the boat, walk the boat, run the boat, crawl, live, die. Over and over again._

_His arms and legs are mush as he runs back up to the shore, his face cold and numb. Steve flounders onto his bloody knees and elbows, staring up at the sky, waiting on the next order._

_"Ring that bell, Sailor! Ring that bell now; you know you're not cut out for this. Ring that bell and crawl back home."_

_"No, sir, I will not!"_

_"Quit, Sailor, quit while you're ahead, or I'm going to send your ass back into that ocean."_

_"Then send me back, sir!" Steve yells._

_***_

_The ambush comes from all directions, RPGs exploding from his ten o'clock, AK fire from the caves at his four. Outgunned, outnumbered, and two hundred miles in-country._

_"We've got about fifty hostiles in jeeps about three klicks behind us, sir."_

_Steve wipes the blood out of his eyes, checking his half-empty clip. It's day seven of what was supposed to be a three-day mission and they have shit for supplies._

_"Petty Officer, when I give you the word, you take out those jeeps. Once our flank is clear, Marcus and I will provide cover fire. Then we'll free climb down the ravine and follow the river to the next extraction site."_

_The petty officer glances down at the ravine, at the jagged eight hundred meter drop, and juts out his chin. "Yes, sir!"_

_Marcus looks over at Steve, keeps his head low as their position is riddled with bullets. "I've got one grenade left."_

_One grenade, no Semtex, and a couple of pistol clips. Another RPG explodes, raining down rocks over their heads._

_"I'll draw their attention and you take out as many as you can," Steve says over the roar of automatic fire. "I'll double back and we'll go down the mountain together."_

_His plan has a hell's chance of working. If they make it down in one piece, it'll take them at least two days in dense jungle to reach the LZ while dodging roaming militias. But Marcus grabs his last AN-M14, ready to pull out the pin, and awaits Steve's orders without question._

_And everything fuzzes in and out, and Steve squints against Marcus' slowly fading face._

***

Steve bolts awake with a gasp, reddish-black blobs smearing his vision. He sits up and waits for his head to stop swimming. Swinging his legs over, he uses the nightstand to stand. God, he hurts, every step setting off fireworks across his body as he slowly makes his way to the bathroom, using the dresser to help. 

He still feels sleep-fogged, remnants of too many memories swirling through his head as he drinks a glass of water. He tries chasing away the ghosts. Limping back to bed, his hand misses the bedpost and he stumbles forward, too exhausted to stop himself from crashing to the floor. 

Everything goes stark white, his brain stutters, then overloads on color and pain. He tries curling in on himself and he chokes down a sob, a faint voice above piercing through the chaos. 

"Steve. Can you hear me?" Warm hands touch Steve's head rather than his shoulders. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay."

Everything is too loud and bright and visceral. Steve blindly swings his arm out, smacking against something soft, and he tries shoving it away. 

"Steve, calm down. It's Danny. Listen to my voice."

The hands disappear, but Steve can feel another warm body next to his, and he recognizes Danny's soft timbre, the scent of fresh soap.

"No," Steve hisses, trying and failing to get up. 

"No, what? Talk to me."

"I can do this," Steve grunts, squeezing his eyes against a bout of vertigo. 

"What? Babe, you're not making a lot of sense."

"I'm not a quitter," he grits between his teeth. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Listen to me, Steven. I know you, and God help me, I know what's going on through that crazy head of yours. You lost a battle, one battle, but I promise the war is far from over, okay?"

Steve stares up at Danny's face, at his lips pressed together, the lines around his eyes deepening in worry. But it's Danny's sheer force of emotion, how his arms twitch in obvious need to reach out, to touch Steve, that slowly saps the noise in Steve's head a little, quiets the stuttering beat of Steve's heart in his chest. 

"You've been in the military for most of your life," Danny says, voice softening. He licks his lips, breathes rapid and heavy. "This isn't the first time you've been injured fighting. I know no matter how much the Navy needed you, how much your guys depended on your brand of insanity, there is no way you would have been cleared to help them. And I know you would never go out there if you weren't a hundred percent. You wouldn't, babe."

Steve swallows, tries focusing on the logic in Danny's words. "No, I wouldn't." 

"Of course not, because you care too damn much." Danny looks away, wiping a hand over his face, before looking back over at Steve. "You wanna tell me how you ended up on the floor?" 

Steve looks around in dawning realization, embarrassment clearing away some of the fog in his head. Using the side of the bed, he pushes up into a sitting position, breathing through the lingering nausea. But he doesn't say anything.

"Oh, back with the silent treatment, huh?"

Steve pulls back, the familiar flame of anger and resentment rekindling in his belly. "Fuck you."

"Not tonight, sorry."

"Get out, Danno."

"Why? Because I'm speaking the truth? Because you're as threatening as angry puppy right now?"

His head echoes with the sound of whistles and ringing bells and Steve digs his fingers into the mattress, arms straining to pull up his weight. 

"Goddamn it. Would you stop it?"

Danny touches Steve's elbow, but Steve bats away Danny's hands away and the room does a one-eighty spin, forcing him to unceremoniously sag back down to the floor. 

Steve clenches and unclenches his good fist, readying for another verbal bombardment, but Danny gives a long sigh and backs away. Steve presses the heel of his hand into his temple, pushing all his explosive feeling deep into the back of his skull. Breathes in and out through his nose, tries clearing away the noise, realizing the truly sad state he's in. 

And yeah, fuck. Danny's right. Steve would never compromise his team to fulfill his need to be back in the game, to be in control when he has zero. That doesn't change the fact that his friends, his ohana, are in danger, that they're in the fight without him.

"Seriously, Steve," Danny says, irritation and exhaustion fraying his voice. "I know words are not either of our strongest talents. Okay, mine tend to be more, you know, boisterous. But I'm trying to communicate without yelling. And I –"

"I can't..." Steve huffs out a breath, struggles with the low static noise still buzzing inside his head, ignoring the darkest thoughts trying to rise to the surface. "I can't protect you. Or Chin or Kono." And that admittance tears him apart. "I can't do the one thing I should be doing. What I've sworn to do, Danny. What I've devoted my life to. And I can't...I can't even..."

His hearts slams bruisingly against his breastbone, the buzzing threatening to overwhelm everything again. 

"God, you are such a stubborn idiot. I swear. And selfish."

Steve jerks his head up, shocked. "What?"

"This isn't the Steve McGarrett show. You're not the only one in this picture," Danny says, sounding worn out. "Don't you think it killed me, ripped my fucking guts out to find you hurt? Huh?"

"Danno –"

"No. Let me finish." Danny wipes at his face and releases a heavy breath. He tentatively takes Steve's hand into his own, rubs his thumb over the soft patch of skin near Steve's wrist. "It's my job to protect you as much as it feels like it's your job to protect me," he whispers. "So please, don't deny me the right to do it now."

Steve resists pulling his hand away, years of hard fought instincts urging him, _demanding_ that he pull himself up by his bootstraps. Crawl until his fingernails bleed. 

"Stop thinking so hard...just stop."

Danny continues rubbing his thumb over Steve's skin, soft and soothing. 

"It's just..." But Steve has nothing, nothing he can form into words, nothing that cuts through the dissonance swallowing him whole. 

A part of him is so drained that he finds himself leaning into Danny's shoulder, even though he hates it, hates giving in, and he digs his face into Danny's soft T-shirt.

Danny pulls him in, wraps his arms around Steve's shoulders. Soft and gentle. Steve bristles a little at being treated with such care, that even now Danny is holding back. 

"Hey, it's okay," Danny murmurs in Steve's ear. Runs his fingers through Steve hair. "God, you and your issues are going to drive me insane."

Danny keeps muttering, keeps complaining, but it's said in such love, such compassion that Steve goes boneless against Danny's chest, soaks up Danny's warmth. Steve closes his eyes, digs his fingers into Danny's bicep, and allows himself these few moments, this night. 

***

The curtains in the guest room are not thick enough to block out the sunlight, waking Danny up a half an hour earlier than intended. Not that he got a fat lot of sleep after the events of last night. He rolls over to his side, taking in Steve lying next to him, his T-shirt accenting the planes of his chest, the shirtsleeves hiding half the ink of his arms. He could stay in bed all day, drinking in the sight of Steve, map out the most sensitive areas of skin, and his train of thought causes other parts of his body to stir.

He slides closer to nuzzle Steve's neck, but stops short when his brain flashes in warning, because right now, underneath the surface of all that tanned skin is a dangerous live-wire , and the thought ruins his morning arousal. 

"Why are you staring at me?"

Danny jumps at the voice. "Jesus. I didn't want to startle you, unlike what you just did to me."

Steve's eyes flutter open as he rubs a weary hand over his face. "Try staring quieter."

"'Try staring quieter,' he says." Danny shakes his head. Sitting all the way up, he rolls his neck, studying how Steve squints at him. "How are you feeling? Still have a headache?"

"Hmmmm," Steve answers.

"I'll take that as a yes. Maybe next time when the doctor tells you no reading, computers, or watching TV, you'll listen."

"I made a crack in the case that led us to Moreno."

"Bed rest is not Latin for work from home."

Steve props himself up on his elbows, his gaze suspicious. "Are you going to send Kono over again or will it be Chin this time?"

"Neither." Danny sits up in bed, pointing a finger at Steve. "And I only did that because you didn't answer the damn phone in the first place. And before you ask, the uni stays. That isn't up for debate." Steve does the thing when he tries getting his way by the force of his scowl, and any other day it would get a rise out of Danny, but he's not going to feed into Steve's need for confrontation. "Look. Could you try looking at things from my point of view?"

"I get it. The uni stays."

But Steve leaves the rest of the bigger picture unspoken, bottling up everything that has him wound up so damn tight. Danny had hoped they made some progress last night, chipped away a little of Steve's heavily forged armor. 

"Steve –"

"I won't leave home and I won't read any case files."

That stops Danny cold, because he expected an all-out war over Steve working some angle of the case, knowing his inability to just sit still even while sidelined. It sends his thoughts sideways. That Steve might do something stupid, cash in a favor, like calling in an airstrike on one of Moreno's operations. 

But Steve sits up with a grimace and actually speaks in a non-confrontational tone. "I have to heal-up. The faster I can get on the mend, the faster I can get back in the field. I can't do anything if I'm not a hundred percent."

Danny stares at Steve, like maybe he took one too many muscle relaxants. Since when did Steve think logically? 

"Look. You were right," Steve says. "I never put my team at risk before and I won't start now. I can't help you nail Moreno if I'm not back on my feet."

Steve's delivery is so damn stoic, so carefully rehearsed, Danny can't tell whom he's trying to convince. It makes his heart ache, filling his chest with too many emotions. 

Swallowing, he brushes a hand down Steve's face and Steve tentatively wraps a hand around the back of Danny's head. Steve is hesitant, licking his lips, before pulling Danny in for a kiss. Danny closes his eyes, forgetting the world for a moment, sliding his tongue into Steve's mouth, savoring how Steve runs his hand across Danny's shoulders, digging his fingers into the muscle. 

Danny reciprocates with a groan, losing himself, kissing harder, nibbling on Steve's bottom lip, trailing his hands down Steve's chest and pushing him back down onto the mattress. 

Steve grunts against Danny's mouth and Danny freezes, eyes widening in horror as he scrambles away. "Oh, fuck. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Steve says breathily, reaching for Danny's shoulder. 

But Danny sits up straight, running a hand through his hair. "No, that was my fault."

"No, it wasn't."

"I shouldn't have –"

"Danny," Steve hisses, slowly easing himself back up. "Just don't."

And Danny curses himself because Steve has that damn wooden look again. The one that says he's pulling away. "I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean –"

"You're going to be late," Steve says, voice terse.

"Steve." But the moment is lost, slipped through his fingers, and Danny is so frustrated. At himself. At Steve. "Yeah. Okay. I'll um...see you later tonight."

Steve doesn't say a word, his gaze a million miles away, and Danny quickly grabs the clothes he set out on the dresser and hustles out the door, mentally smacking himself on the head.

***

Danny skips the coffee pot as he enters HQ, making a beeline for the command center. He starts pacing before Kono and Chin even exit their offices.

Chin nods. "Hey."

"Any word from the surveillance teams?" Danny asks, needing something to dive into to quiet all the nerves burning under his skin.

"Nothing yet." Chin waves his hand at the LCD screen. "We're still going through and cataloging all the video and pictures from the art opening."

"And Detective Iona and Bronson from narcotics are coming by later to help us weed through everything," Kono adds.

"What about right after the art gallery?" Danny begins pacing again. Back and forth, back and forth. "Was there any unusual activity from the targets we already had under the canvass?"

"Nothing," Chin says. "If Moreno was spooked by our little party crash, he didn't make any moves or change his schedule of operations."

"What about phone calls?" Danny asks irritably. 

"He switches burner phones daily." Kono looks over at Danny, frowning. "And there was too much noise at the party to pick up anything."

"I know we rattled him," Danny growls. 

"Maybe," Kono says. "But so far, it hasn't caused him make a move."

That's not acceptable. 

Danny pulls out his cell phone, scrolling through his list of informants in grim determination. "Then we need to shake things up a little more."

***

Danny stands across the street of a warehouse, fastening the tabs to his vest and checking the extra clips for his M16. Chin and Kono exit their vehicles, walking over to join them, Chin darting curious looks in his direction. 

"According to at least two different CIs," Danny says, pulling opening the case to his rifle, "this is one of three rotating locations where Moreno stores his product once it arrives from the mainland."

Kono scopes out the looming industrial complex. "Unit Three has been sitting on this place the last couple of days and they haven't reported any unusual activity, brah."

Danny had browbeaten his top informants about this warehouse. They had been one hundred percent certain about this place. "I have it on good authority there's a massive shipment of coke in there and the reason Moreno hasn't moved anything is he knows we have our eyes on him."

"Well, we did crash his party with our big announcement," Chin reminds him. 

"Considering he fired the first shot in this war, I'd say it's a safe bet he knew we'd be onto him," Danny argues back. 

Chin quickly inspects his shotgun, holding it at rest. "You know that if we find a ton of coke in there, the raid won't stick? We don't have a warrant, and without the backing of surveillance, we can't pin it on Moreno or use it to build a case against him."

"No, but we'll piss him off." Moreno is too smart to have anything lead back to him; today is about power plays. It's about flexing muscle and the willingness to risk big and lose big and not caring. Danny looks Chin in the eye. "We have to hurt him. Hurt him where it counts: his wallet. And we keep hurting him. And keep hurting him, and keep hurting him until he makes a stupid mistake."

Chin nods, eyes fierce and determined. "I'm game."

Kono just gives Danny this impatient look, like she can't understand why they're still standing around. It makes his heart swell in pride. He just wishes Steve could see it.

Adrenaline pumping, Danny inserts his earpiece and pulls out his radio to coordinate with HPD to begin the raid. 

***

With another twelve hour shift in the books, the raid still loud in his ears, Danny can't wait wash it out of his system, and turn his off his brain from thinking up ways to tear apart Moreno's operations. He wants to stomp the bastard into the ground so he can stop checking the rear view mirror for tails every two minutes.

Danny actually slows down next to the patrol car in front of the McGarrett home, easing off the accelerator enough to nod at the officers, giving them a wave to check if they're actually awake. Both men wave back and Danny feels foolish for doubting their integrity, but he knows how monotonous protection detail can be. Maybe he'll make them some of his famous chili tomorrow night. Of course, that doesn't help him figure out tonight's dinner.

The lights are on in the living room, but Danny doesn't spot Steve on the sofa, and his hand drifts to his H&K out of instinct. After a couple of steps, he notices Steve sitting at the dining room table and Danny releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. 

"You hungry? I'm famished; I was thinking Chinese," Danny says by way of a greeting.  
He waits for Steve's reply, but stops in his tracks, eyeing the dozen dissembled pistol parts all over the table. "What are you doing?"

Steve looks up at him while running a brush down the barrel bore. "It's called cleaning." 

Danny watches Steve's oil stained fingers work one of the grooves in the metal, twisting the brush at an angle. Steve catches him staring, but he doesn't utter a word. 

"Yes, yes it is," Danny says, his brain connecting with his mouth. "It is something I was very familiar with, that is until I met you, and your need to strip and reassemble my service weapon whenever you clean yours. Which is way too often, I might add."

"Regular maintenance ensures optional performance and less risk of malfunctions." Steve applies more gun oil to one of the cleaning cloth. "I cooked dinner, too. Grilled actually. There are hamburgers and baked potatoes waiting for you in the kitchen." Steve glides the cloth inside the slide. "I made extras for the guys outside."

"Wow. Cleaning, cooking, did you do laundry, too?"

"I can't carry clothes downstairs, yet."

Danny rolls his eyes. "Why not jerry-rig a pulley system? I mean what's the big deal about sleeping when there are household chores to be done?"

"I actually slept a lot."

Steve does look worlds better than he did last night or this morning. He's dressed in shorts and a white T-shirt, with more color in his cheeks, and his features less pinched around his eyes and mouth. Danny bites his tongue and keeps his mother-henning instincts to a minimum, knowing exactly how much effort it probably took Steve to make dinner. 

Danny gestures at the six-inch blade lying on the black velvet cloth. "And the knife?"

"One of my old Mark 3's."

"Right." 

Danny isn't going to question Steve's odd brand of therapy; he should have expected the cleaning kit and the bottle of solvent. They come out after every really grueling case. 

"You have any more hidden weapons? Should I look for a secret bunker?"

"I don't bring stuff like that home, Danny. All the heavy ordnance is secured at work, and I have a piece in the truck and upstairs."

"Not including all the fun toys you keep in the trunk of the Camaro."

"Like I said, I try to keep work and home separate."

But sometimes, that is impossible. 

"How's the case coming?" Steve asks.

Danny clears away some of the cleaning supplies so he has a spot to eat. "We made a raid on a suspected supply warehouse, but came away empty."

Steve looks up, surprised. "Already?"

"We had a good tip." Danny keeps a straight face about the true intentions of the foray, learning a thing or two from Steve about the beauty of omitting certain facts. "Besides, nothing like turning up the heat to show we mean business."

"I think crashing an art opening is a pretty big statement."

"Not without following it up. We can't be all bark and no bite."

He walks around and inside the kitchen before Steve can begin an interrogation. Lunch was a sandwich from the vending machine, so his stomach rumbles at the idea of food. Snagging a plateful of burgers, he quirks an eyebrow at the blender halfway filled with _something_ , grabbing it and returning to the dining room.

"What is this concoction?"

"Double protein powder, yogurt, bananas –"

"Yeah, yeah." Danny sniffs it, wrinkling his nose. "But why would you drink it?"

"It has a high biological value and amino acids to –"

"It stinks to high heaven. Eat one of your burgers; I bet it's tastier."

Steve fills his empty glass with the shake, grinning. "I'll have both."

Danny snorts indignantly and Steve makes a show of gulping the shake loudly while Danny complains about the lack of ketchup in the bottle. And for a few minutes, everything feels normal, with the bickering, and Steve being ridiculous, and Danny laughs despite himself.

***

When Danny wakes up, Steve isn't next to him. He goes from groggy to alert in five seconds. The blanket is folded over and Steve's crutches are missing and Danny stumbles out of bed, wondering how the hell did Mr. Hop Along slip out of the room without waking him? 

Making his way down the hall quietly, he hears the soft sounds of someone moving around, and Danny pauses in confusion at the sight in front of him. Steve is in his boxers and a faded blue T-shirt, the black brace around his knee while his crutches rest against the wall. He's in some sort of zone, his face in total concentration. He hobbles a few steps, then stops, closes his eyes, opens them, and slowly swings out an elbow as if practicing a defensive move. Then he straightens, arm bracing his side, and does it again. Swings his elbow at slightly different angle. It's like some freaky sort of pantomime. 

And on any normal day, Danny wouldn't mind the show – he enjoys watching Steve work out – but this isn't graceful, it's...bizarre. 

"Wha'cha doing?" Steve freezes, eyes like a deer caught in the headlights. Sensing the sudden tension, Danny enters the living room and heads toward the kitchen. "Want some coffee?"

Danny brews a fresh pot, grabs two mugs and some sugar and cream. Keeps telling himself not to demand answers because putting Steve on the defensive will only lock him down even more. So, he bites his lip and tries not acting on his natural instincts for once as he hears the familiar thump, thump entering the kitchen. 

"Hey."

Danny turns toward the voice, coffee forgotten. "Morning."

Steve grabs one of his prescription bottles lined up on the counter and taps out two horse pills. 

"You sure you're supposed to be doubling up on the iron like that?" Danny asks, knowing Steve still has lingering issues with anemia. 

"It helps with the lightheadedness." Steve swallows them down with a large bottle of water then  
shuffles toward the kitchen island and pokes at citrus in the fruit bowl. "I was thinking –"

"Of course you were." 

"Where are we at with Moreno's financials?"

Danny can't help noticing Steve's use of the word we. "What about them? Are you referring to his money laundering, his dozens of hidden accounts that even government can't trace back to him, or how he likes to balance his checkbook?"

"Any leads on his hired associate?"

Danny frowns; he's focused most of his energy on the bastard's drug operation. "Moreno has an entire accounting firm on retainer with only his legitimate business visible on the books. Not to mention the assets needed to hire someone skilled enough to take on a Navy SEAL would probably be as deeply hidden as all of his other dirty funds."

"He would have paid him a deposit then a final payment. Probably wired everything."

"Or he could have paid in cash."

Steve grabs a knife out of a drawer and leans against the island to peel at an orange. "Not Moreno. And not the guy he hired."

"Oh, really? You've met Moreno, studied the asshole, and have him figured out, just like that?"

Bits of orange peel fall onto the table, long beautiful spirals. "Moreno would have met with guy. Looked him in the eye, but money? That would have been wired. That's secondary."

"To what? To the thrill of pounding on someone?"

"The challenge," Steve says, cutting open the orange.

A sick feeling grips Danny's gut and he swallows against the bile in the back of his throat while Steve just stands there, slicing another orange wedge, his eyes focused on some distant point on the floor.

"Who's in charge of the financial end of things?"

Unlike Steve, Danny needs a minute or two in the morning before jumping headlong into a case or the psychological profile of sociopaths. "We have a whole task force –"

"Is it Maki from Cyber Crimes?"

"We're on it. I promise. I even have Toast poking around."

Steve glances up at him in surprise, his eyes flicking down in thought before cutting a final wedge, slow and precise. 

"Were you planning on eating that orange or were you just going practice your knife skills?" Danny asks.

Steve hefts the small kitchen knife in his hand, and for a second, Danny has no idea what he plans on doing with it: if this is the moment Steve flings it into the wall or stabs it a thousand times into the counter. 

Instead, Steve slowly limps toward the sink, all quiet and collected, rinsing off the blade under the water. "You'll keep me updated today?"

"Like I have a choice?" Danny quips, hoping to get a slight rise out of Steve despite his better judgment. But Steve doesn't bite and he starts futzing around with the blender, forcing Danny to keep the conversation going. "And what's on your agenda today?"

"Same as yours," Steve says, preparing another one of his shakes. "Keep chipping away the obstacles in front of me."

***


	3. Chapter Three

***

Steve stands in the living room as he has the last couple of days, trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn't fit. Concealment is the key to a successful ambush. Strike first and your opponent will most likely fall. 

He deactivates the alarm and walks onto the porch, turning around, and for the millionth time, he opens the door, this time, slamming it hard against the wall. But his assailant hadn't been behind the door; he'd rushed Steve from the other side – a side of exposure – giving him almost two point three seconds to react. Enough time to block the attack. He'd even narrowed it down to the elbow jab as the most effective counter.

He slowly closes the door and stares at the corner, wondering why his assailant hadn't used the most advantageous point of attack against him. 

***

He hobbles into his father's office, resting his crutches against the chair. He'd waited for his Percocet to kick in before making two trips back and forth to gather everything he would need for the next few hours. Steve verifies he has everything required and pulls out the Sig from the waistband of his cargoes, checks the safety, and sets it next to his water bottle.

Taking a deep breath, he grabs dad's police scanner and sets it on the desk, lowering the volume. He might be sidelined from the case, but Danny still has to use the radio to coordinate with HPD for back-up and Steve won't be totally in the dark if something major occurs. 

He takes the pillow he snagged from the sofa, using it to cushion his back as he sits in the chair and powers up his laptop. Magnifying the zoom and lowering the brightness allows him to read, as long as he takes a break every twenty minutes to keep any migraines at bay. He didn't lie to Danny yesterday. Steve hadn't read any case files, but that doesn't mean he can't use his Naval Intel skills to dig into Moreno's financials. That's the key to nailing the bastard. 

And Danny gave Steve a key weapon in his fight, a very important ally. Taking a sip from his water bottle, he pulls out his cell and dials Toast.

***

Steve knows Toast has the attention span of a gnat unless kept constantly on task, so he's not surprised that the nerd had slacked off on the search Danny assigned him. But that's okay because Steve has a new set of objectives.

"Okay, Toast. Most of Moreno's legitimate business was in the nickel and halite mines he owned in Colombia."

_"Yep. Mining's great for high volume selling to an ass-load of customers across the globe. You've got like hundreds of thousands of dollars that can be converted into foreign currency, wired electronically, and oh, wait a minute. Bingo. What a surprise, he's got a ton of offshore accounts."_

"Yeah. Layering. I'm aware of the technique."

_"Really?"_

"I used to hunt down terror cells by following their assets."

_"Whoa. Cool. Yeah, I forgot that about you."_

In the distance, Steve hears a police siren and he listens to dispatcher radio about a nearby robbery. He checks his line of sight to the front door then through the French doors leading to the lanai, his eyes landing on his Sig before focusing on his laptop again.

"Look. Moreno still launders his money using his mining operations for cover, but what about when he set up shop in Hawaii?"

_"Not much. I mean, he could run his business from anywhere in the world. That's the beauty of this stuff. Between cybercash, ebanking, and all those wire transfers –"_

"But he's in Hawaii now."

_"Yeah, brah. But we need him to be using US banks to, you know, get caught here."_

"He still needs to be able to pay his instate clients."

_"Which clients?"_

"His legitimate employees or even some of his buyers. Not everyone has offshore accounts."

Steve hears Toast snort indignantly. 

_"Well, then they're idiots."_

***

When Moreno had been in Colombia, it'd been hard for the CIA to track his assets, but he'd been fair game once he landed in the US. In the last month, all of his money transfers have been under the three thousand dollar amount, and not just a few transactions, but thousands a day. Small amounts that flew under banking reporting requirements and eluded security measures, but still added up to big bucks. Like money from large-scale drug operations.

_"Dude, do you know how hard it's going to be to sift through this many transactions looking for the ones that originated in the States?"_

Steve rubs at his temples. "Use link analysis."

_"I am. But trying to find a pattern between accounts, people, and organizations is..."_

"I'm sending you an algorithm," Steve says.

"Oh, that's nice, Knowledge Based One. That requires, I dunno, an analyst to use. Someone like you."

Steve closes his eyes in frustration. It's been three hours working with Toast using Skype and a private server where they had uploaded all their hacked files on Moreno. They'd barely scratched the surface. It could take days of poring over data and Steve can only look at the computer for a half an hour at time without getting dizzy.

_"Look man, why don't you go chill or something? I can comb through this stuff on my own."_

"You know how many hours –"

_"I have a fridge filled with Red Bull. I'll be good."_

"And if you need another code –"

_"I'll text you. Don't get me wrong, that algorithm you sent is pretty sweet, but I've got my own bag of tricks."_

"Okay," Steve says, unhappily. 

He hears the rustling of a bag of chips in the background and Steve cringes at the irritating sound.

_"So, what do you want me to focus on? The smoking gun that will crack open this guy's whole racket or you know, that **thing** Williams wanted me to track down last week?"_

"Danny had you looking for the payment records pertaining to the contract put out on me?"

_"Yeah. I mean, well, it wasn't a hit, I guess, but it was –"_

"Do you know the profile of the type of person you're looking for?"

Steve knows exactly the type of hired muscle it took. 

_"God, I hope not. But yeah, there are not too many Terminator types out there. I know where they lurk."_

"Then track both."

_"You don't ask for much, dude."_

***

Steve tries lying on the sofa, but his back is so stiff from the office chair that the best he can do is lean against a stack of pillows in a semi-reclining position. He'd taken a bad punch to a kidney during a SERE training program – the one SEALs used in Gitmo had been especially brutal. It took a couple of weeks before it ever fully healed and he dreads how long it's going to take before he can sit for long periods at a time without problems.

He was supposed to take a nap – he'd scheduled one during his day, knowing how vital sleep is for a body's recovery – but chatter on the police scanner had picked up in the last half hour and he can't risk going to sleep. He listens intently as dozens of units report to three undisclosed locations using code words, Danny's voice piping in occasionally to verify people's statuses. To an untrained ear, it would sound like a busy Thursday, but Steve pieces together everything and he can't believe it – they're conducting three raids simultaneously.

 

***

He paces in this half-limp half-shuffle, phone clutched in his hand. Steve isn't stupid. He won't call anyone on his team while they're in the middle of an operation. He checks his watch. It's been ten minutes of radio silence punctuated by an occasional burst of static. But this is SOP, everyone communicating via headsets. The longer the silence stretches, though...

_"Units one, two, and three, report."_ Danny's heavy voice comes over the scanner.

_"Unit One all clear. We need a bus for a single suspect, but the rest are secured."_

Everyone else reports in, and Steve leans against the wall, forehead pressed against the wood, his heart slowing from a rapid beat. He beams in pride for a few seconds at such a strategic, decisive blow to Moreno's operation and allows himself to enjoy the moment. But it only takes a few seconds before the harsh reality sinks in. 

Danny didn't just launch a battle; he completed an all-out assault. 

***

Steve rests on the lid of the toilet after removing his clothes and the knee brace, then tapes a plastic bag around his cast to prevent it from getting wet. His evening pill has had time to work through his system, but it's done shit for his back, the spasms worsening, and fuck if he's going to add the muscle relaxant to the mix. He can't afford to be completely out of it. Not now.

Thankfully, the downstairs bathroom has a nice-sized shower stall and he doesn't have to worry about getting in and out of a tub. Turning on the water, Steve flattens his hand against the tile in front of him. He keeps his left leg slightly bent; balancing most of his weight onto his right foot, and for a few seconds, Steve closes his eyes, relishing the way the water cascades down his back.

Steve leans further against the tile while turning up the water pressure. The left side of his neck twinges as muscles start to ease in his shoulders, muscles he didn't realize until now had been so knotted up. But using crutches has its drawbacks, and he stands there, savoring the heat building as steam slowly fogs up the stall.

He lifts up his face, the water streaming down his cheeks and mouth when his ears perk up at the sound of the door opening. His knife is under the towel on top of toilet tank and he watches the blob enter the bathroom through the opaque stall glass, timing exactly how long it would take –

"Steve, it's me," Danny's voice filters through the shower. "I'm coming in."

Steve lets his head drop, swallowing a curse.

"Is that a knife I see under the towel, Steven?"

"You coming in or what?" 

He hears Danny take off his clothes before sliding open the door. Steve slowly turns around, taking in those broad shoulders and hairy chest. It feels like forever since he's had a chance to admire them. "Long day?"

"Too long," Danny says. He stares at Steve, his gaze lingering on Steve's torso, probably checking the status of the lingering bruises there, before looking back up to meet Steve's eyes with a determined expression. "But I'm ready to relax."

Steve feels his heart speed up as Danny grabs a bar of soap and starts rolling it between his palms, slow and methodical. Steve swallows hard, watching Danny's hands work the soap into lather, breathing in the unmistakable scent of lemon grass, making him want to lick Danny's skin clean.

Danny grins at Steve's expression. "Turn around, babe." Steve shuffles around, one hand planted on the side of the stall and the other in front of him. "Just let me do all the work," Danny whispers into Steve's left ear. And damn if that doesn't send a shudder down his body.

Danny's soapy hands begin at Steve's shoulders, thumbs digging into his trapezius muscles, eliciting a low groan from the depths of Steve's throat. Danny continues rubbing in circles, nice and drawn-out, then crosses the line of Steve's scapula, causing Steve to almost lose his hold on the wall.

"You like that?" Danny whispers.

"God, yeah."

"Hold on."

Steve listens to Danny fumble with a bottle of shampoo and soon his hands return, sliding into Steve's hair, his fingers working into his scalp. Steve can't help leaning his head into the touch as Danny continues massaging delicate pressure points, his fingers kneading Steve's temples then earlobes.

Steve closes his eyes, breath hitching. Danny moves to Steve's neck, thumbs going from the base of his skull, down the sides, and back down to his shoulders. Steve makes another low noise, focusing on how his abused muscles slowly loosen under Danny's ministrations. And he's lost in a haze of warmth and relief, aching with it, as Danny's fingers move between Steve's shoulder blades while kissing Steve's neck. 

While his shoulders relax, the middle of his back is too tender to handle all the standing and bending. But he won't lose this moment, won't give in. Steve bites down on a gasp and turns around, grabbing Danny by the shoulders, using them to hold himself upright as he presses his body closer, feeling the swell of Danny's cock against his thigh. 

Steve kisses Danny, sucking at his bottom lip. Danny groans in pleasure, passing his soapy hands across Steve's pectorals, sliding over each nipple, pinching them. Steve grunts, breathing hard, sliding his mouth down Danny's throat, biting down lightly at the tendon.

"Fuck, Steve."

Steve squeezes Danny's shoulders tighter for leverage, urging Danny backward. "Move."

"Always got to be ordering me around," Danny mumbles playfully. 

But Danny inches away, Steve limping with him. Danny's back hits the wall while Steve leans most of his weight on him, hoping it's enough to keep him on his feet, knowing how stupidly dangerous it is to risk his knee like this.

Danny slips a hand around Steve's hip, giving him some stability, pressing their bodies closer. "This good for you?" he asks breathless.

It helps a little. Steve's knee throbs, his back tensing up even more, but he answers Danny by kissing him deeply, concentrating on the sensations of lips, teeth, and tongue. He tries to forget about the pain, forget about the fear from earlier tonight with Danny and his damned insane, simultaneous raids. 

But Steve's body has yet to respond properly to the play of skin and mouths, and he hooks his arm around Danny's neck, jutting his hips to rub against Danny's growing hardness.

"Let me."

Danny slips his free hand between them, wrapping his fingers around Steve's cock, gently squeezing it in rhythm to the motion of Steve's hips. But even after a minute of Danny's eager attention, Steve is still only half-hard and he slides his own hand down to increase the stimulation.

But the more friction he adds, the more frustrated Steve becomes when he can't get it up enough.

"Hey, hey," Danny says, grabbing Steve by the chin and forcing him to look Danny in the eye. "Give me a second, I'll figure something out," he says with an encouraging smile.

Steve watches Danny's eyes flick down, and he knows what he's thinking, imagining Danny sinking to his knees. But the mental image doesn't help, and he can't stand without being Danny fully upright.

His illusion crashes down around him. Biting his lip, Steve rests his forehead against Danny's shoulder, closing his eyes tightly against the disappointment. 

Danny strokes Steve's hair, whispering assurances, and that somehow makes it even worse. "Come on, maybe we can –"

"No." Steve lifts up his head, blinking against the water dripping from his hair. "Just..."

"This isn't a thing, okay?" Danny says frowning. 

But despite his words, Danny physically pulls away, one hand letting go of Steve's hip, the other dropping from Steve's face.

"I'm sorry," Steve mumbles, hurrying to get out. He slides open the shower door, using the towel rack to limp into the bathroom, dripping water everywhere. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Thinking? This wasn't about thinking, I promise."

Steve doesn't look behind him; he's too busy trying to wrap a towel around his waist, his face flushed red from more than the heat. Stupid. He's so fucking stupid. He's not getting anywhere with the towel, and he grabs his boxers, trapped between using the toilet to help slip them on or going to the bedroom.

"Are you going to turn around and talk to me?" Danny asks, still standing in the shower, the water off. "There's no fault here. Nothing that hasn't happened to me or..." He sighs, taking a deep breath. "Sometimes things don't go right, babe."

In the back of his mind, Steve knows it was probably the painkillers or trying to do too much too soon, but on the heels of everything else, it's hard to take. He just doesn't know anymore. Can't trust that his body will work right soon, or hell, maybe it's all in his head? That he's sabotaging himself somehow.

Fuck it. He sits on the toilet – there's no pretending anymore – and Steve manages to get on his boxers and the pair of sweatpants. "Go ahead and take a shower, you just got home from work."

"Why I am I not surprised that you don't want to talk about this?"

"I'd rather discuss the case. Did you file your notes from today on the Five-O server?" 

"Seriously?" Danny says irritably. Steve still doesn't turn around. "Why do I even...Actually, you're right. I'm going to take a shower, a nice long one. And use up all the hot water. Because I can't even..."

Danny slams the shower door closed. Steve rubs a tired hand over his face and concentrates on his knee brace. He'd let his mind wander, took his sights off the main goal, and he can't do that again. He needs to re-focus. Get rid of distractions. Not wanting to make a second trip, he wraps his knife holster around his thigh, snags his crutches, and hobbles out of the bathroom.

***

Steve paces the small length of his living room, crutches in all, with an intense need to get the hell out, go outside, run, or swim, or do any of the millions of things he can't do. His ribs still hurt if he breathes too deeply or turns around at anything other than half speed. So, he stares at the wall for a good three seconds, tries focusing on the paint, at the brush strokes, stalking back and forth the best he can until he uses up all his excess energy. Allows it to bleed out of him and onto the floor. Anything to keep his mind clear.

By the time he makes a seventh circuit in the living room, it's at a slow painful lurch, and it takes a moment before he realizes his cell phone is ringing. He grabs it off the table, balancing awkwardly on his crutches. "McGarrett."

_"Dude, it's Toast."_

"Look, man. Now's not a really –"

_"I found him."_

"Found who?"

_"Drake Kenning."_

Steve rests one crutch against the table to grip the cell better. "Drake Kenning?"

_"President of Black Diamond, some firm that provides all types of high level security for private business and subcontracts to the government."_

"And Moreno sent this guy payment in US funds?"

_"Yep,”_ Toast says, slurping on something through a straw. _"Ten thousand bucks seven days before your attack and twenty thousand dollars two hours after it."_

Steve can still hear the sounds of the shower running so he can't shout at Danny to get the hell over here. He leaves both crutches leaning on the table and hobbles into the office to grab his laptop.  
"Thanks, man. I owe you big time."

_"Gonna hold you to that. Oh. And I might have already run a check on him, but he's a ghost, dude. Hope you have better luck than I did."_

"Don't worry; I've got my own bag of tricks for people like this, too."

Steve logs into the HPD server just to be thorough, but he's already thinking ten steps ahead regarding his next move.

***

Steve hears Danny walk over and his shoulders tense in dread. He looks up from his laptop in time to watch Danny pad over in bare feet, waving his cell phone around, his hair still damp from the shower. "Hey. I've got some news."

It takes a moment for Steve to mentally shift gears to Danny in work-mode. "Yeah?"

"HPD located an abandoned cable van in a ditch some thirty miles away," Danny says, watching Steve. "It might have been the one used to conduct surveillance on you and the house."

"Really?"

"It's being towed to the lab now. Fong's going to go through it tomorrow."

"That's actually perfect, because I've got the name of the guy Moreno hired to come after me."

Danny's eye widen in shock. "You what?"

"I've been working with Toast going through Moreno's financials and we tracked down who he made payments to." Steve turns around his laptop, folding his arms across his chest. "Drake Kenning."

"Drake Kenning who has no record," Danny says, staring at the screen.

"No record, no address other than his current one, and nothing since he moved to Oahu six months ago." Steve turns the computer back around to stare at it again. "Drake Kenning didn't exist before he arrived on the island."

"An alias."

"Exactly. This is why you and I are going to pay him a little visit tomorrow morning."

"Excuse me?" Danny eyebrows shoot up to the top of his head while he gapes at Steve. "Um. Did I miss the part where you re-joined the investigation?"

Steve uses the desk to get to his feet, working his jaw back and forth in irritation. "I've been a part of this investigation for the last couple days. I might not be physically a hundred percent, but my brain is fine."

"Your brain has never been fine, but that is beside the point." Danny glares at Steve like he has no clue how to react. "What are you going to do? Just waltz into his office and have a chat? Ask him if he wants to turn himself in?"

"I don't know, Danny. But I'm the only one who can identify him. So, the only question is, are you going to back me up?"

"Are you serious?" 

Danny rounds on Steve like he wants to shake him. And maybe he does, but Steve meets Danny's fiery disbelief with a bold, determined stare. Steve isn't playing around, he needs Danny with him, but he'll climb in his truck and drive over to Black Diamond alone if he has to.

If possible, Danny's eyes grow even bigger as if reading Steve's mind. "Oh, for...What did I say about over-thinking, huh? Of course, I'm going to back you up! I am your partner and that is my job. It might be the dumbest idea in the history of man, but it's yours. And while we're talking about this idiotic shit, do you have a plan, or are you just going to stick your Sig in his face?"

It takes Steve a second to gather his thoughts, realizing in frustration that they're a little scattered, that his heart is going a million miles per hour. "I haven't thought that far ahead yet."

"Obviously."

"Well, obviously, I'll have time to figure something out."

Danny throws up his hands and Steve sits back down in his chair, bottom lip caught between his teeth, glaring at the nearly empty file on the computer with nothing more than Kenning's current address. There isn't even a picture to go with it, but he knows in his gut that this is the guy. The guy that had laid Steve out without effort, could have easily killed him, and he hates to admit it, but a small part of Steve is actually a little scared about the whole the thing. 

Danny sighs and taps Steve's leg with his foot. "Do you think if you look at the guy's name long enough it'll magically make more information appear?"

Steve looks up and catches Danny watching him with a sad sort of fondness. It sends a pang of guilt through Steve's chest, threatening to tear open his heart and bleed out all of his emotions. 

"I need time to think," he says, flicking his gaze from Danny to the computer screen.

"But not time to talk?"

Steve can smell hints of Danny's aftershave and his freshly laundered T-shirt, can feel the warmth from his shower even inches away. But he ignores a desperate need to reach out and touch him. "Not tonight."

"Should I make an appointment? How about next week, that good for you?"

"Danny."

"You can't bottle everything inside, Steve. It doesn't make the things you're trying to avoid go away."

Steve desperately wants to tell Danny that he knows, he gets it, and God, he wants to get rid of the disappointment in Danny's voice, erase that expression of concern that's become a permanent part of his face. But he can't afford even the smallest distraction, not with the growing threat. He won't risk it. He won't risk Danny or Chin or Kono...not because he took his eyes off the ball. He can't allow anything to cloud his thinking.

So, instead of giving Danny a smile, or a promise to talk later, Steve focuses on the one angle that he can control. He quickly logs into the HPD server and searches for Danny's notes from the raids today, biting his lip when he hears Danny walk away.

***

Sleep eludes him all night. Steve can't turn off his brain, can't stop the rampant buzz in his head, creating whole scenarios in his mind with a man he only remembers in glimpses. Night drags into dawn, until he realizes it would have been better to have stayed awake instead of fighting to catch a few minute's rest. By early morning, he's climbing the walls. 

The ride over to Black Diamond is silent, and Steve stares out the window through his sunglasses, checking for any suspicious vehicles following them by using the mirrors. His Sig is secured by his hip and his back-up at his ankle. Danny looks over at him occasionally, his hands white-knuckled from gripping the steering wheel.

"I know it's a stupid question, but did you take your pills this morning, or are you going to Superman it today?"

"I took a half. I need to be mobile."

Whatever his meds don't cover, his adrenaline will. Steve barely waits for the car to stop before unfastening his seat belt and opening the door. 

"Will you wait a second?" Danny demands, slamming his door closed. "This isn't a race."

But Steve already has his crutches under him and is heading for the entrance. "Come on."

"You're going to have to keep your head today, Steven. There's no going back if you do something reckless."

"Believe it or not, I have more self-control than you think I do," Steve says, allowing Danny to walk ahead of him and push open the large heavy door.

"Uh-huh."

The Black Diamond is one of dozens of offices in the building, located on the twentieth floor on the very top level. Other than a description of services from their website, Steve couldn't find much about the firm, confirming his suspicion that it's a front for illegal activities. 

Except for wandering around the house, this is the longest Steve has used his crutches, and he's actually happy to step into the elevator and have a nice long trip to the final level. 

"You still haven't figured out how you want to play this, have you?" Danny asks, obviously on edge. 

"Just follow my lead," Steve says, still re-playing a million different conversations in his head, many ending in ways he won't admit to Danny.

They arrive at a marble front desk with a wall that obscures almost everything except for a hallway. Steve looks for possible exits while a woman with strawberry blonde hair looks up at them.

"I'm sorry, but you need to have an appointment to come up here," she says with a fake smile.

"Actually we do," Danny says, matching her patronizing tone, and pulling out his badge. "Here it is."

The receptionist doesn't appear to care. "Like I said, you need to have an –"

"And this says I don't," Danny replies voice clipped. "We're here to see Drake Kenning."

"Mr. Kenning isn't here."

Steve listens to Danny's ongoing conversation while studying the security camera in the ceiling. As Danny continues arguing with the receptionist, Steve slowly begins making his way into the hallway, searching the corridor for offices.

"I don't think you understand," Danny's irate voice booms. "We're not leaving until we see Kenning."

There are four offices. The door to the last one opens and a man swiftly heads for another elevator located next to a stairwell. The guy checks over his shoulder and Steve freezes, locking eyes with him, all the hair on Steve's arms and neck rising. 

He remembers that face.

Kenning hurries into the elevator and Steve ditches his crutches, limping as fast as he can, reaching the doors, and shoving his way inside before they close. 

***

Blood roars in his ears, all his muscles tensing around his bones. But Steve holds himself with the same type of control he'd used to stay hidden in caves surrounded by the Taliban. 

Kenning is all girth with the shoulders of an ox under a gray suit, his close-cropped hair tinged silver at the temples. But expensive clothes can't conceal years spent living with violence. Steve notices a knife scar under the man's chin, one above the ear, and a nose that's been broken more than once. 

Steve never takes his eyes off Kenning's face, at the healing the bruise under his jaw, fully aware that he put it there. "I think you and I need to have a chat, Mr. Kenning," he says, his voice steel. "Although we both know that is not your real name."

Kenning regards Steve impassively, thick arms loose by his sides, but he doesn't speak as the elevator begins its descent.

"We've already traced the funds Moreno sent to your accounts," Steve tells him, fingers brushing against the butt of his weapon. "Not to mention that the van you used for your surveillance is being combed through inch by inch for prints by our lab." Kenning holds himself rigid; it's a posture Steve is familiar with, one used to conceal emotion. "I'm sure you were very thorough in wiping down your prints, probably vacuumed, maybe even used a powerful cleaner. Of course, there are the places you don't think about.

"Just for example: the underside of the sun visor. Or what about when you adjusted the seat – did you remember wipe down that handle?" Steve steps closer, forcing all his weight onto both legs without support and keeping his expression hard. "What about when you pumped gas? Did you get the lid over the tank?"

Kenning doesn't rise to the bait. Steve flicks his eyes toward the control panel and stabs the emergency stop button with his knuckles, the elevator jerking to a halt. He braces a hand on one of the doors for a split second to keep his balance.

"I can ID you," he says, his tone deadly. "You're looking at conspiracy and assault on an officer."

"Commander McGarrett, isn't it?" Kenning asks in a dull rasp. "I saw you in the paper a few weeks ago. A kidnapping case." He slowly holds up his wrists. "If I'm under arrest then handcuff me."

He keeps his hands in the air in a deceptive gesture of submission.

"It's only a matter of time," Steve tells him, forcing calm into his demeanor. 

 

"I would have thought a man like you would be more decisive in his actions." Kenning lowers his hands. "Soldiers don't talk; they wage war."

"You've fought a lot of wars?"

"Many."

Steve feels the blood boil under his skin, his breathing heavy, voice a low growl. "Then you sold your uniform to the highest dollar."

"We all have talents. Mine is to locate and exploit weaknesses." Kenning steps closer, his body inches from Steve. "You have a compromised wrist, limiting the use of your right hand and arm. You favor your left leg. And I suspect those are just the ones you can't hide."

"Or maybe those are the things I want you to see."

Kenning narrows his eyes, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting his lips before reverting to a set of narrow lines. "Deception is a trademark of an elite solider," he says, hitting the elevator button with his finger and jolting them back in motion. 

Steve stares in steely silence until they hit the bottom floor, the doors sliding open to reveal an underground parking lot with Danny, weapon raised, his breaths coming in loud and rapid.

"Detective," Kenning nods, sidestepping Danny like he's not a threat.

Danny's shoulders stiffen, training Kenning with his H&K, eyes flicking toward Steve in question. "Is that him?"

"Yeah," Steve grits out.

Danny locks his arms in place, never taking his sights off Kenning, a look of pure malice darkening his face. And for a moment, Steve could imagine Danny pulling the trigger, can see how much he wants to do it in his eyes. How his body vibrates in need.

"Let him go," Steve says, forcing the words out his mouth, resisting the urge to draw his own weapon. 

Kenning walks out of eyesight and Danny lowers his piece, spinning on Steve. "What the hell was that about? I saw the elevator stuck between floors and I nearly went out of mind!"

"We don't have enough evidence to arrest him. My testimony would be as good as my memory of the attack," Steve says, walking back into the elevator and tries focusing on the task at hand. "But he doesn't know that."

"What did you do?"

Steve pulls out a small leather case from his pocket, sliding out dusting powder and tape. "I wasn't even sure we'd find Kenning here, but..." He pauses, applying tape to the control panel. "I thought we might be able to lift a print and find out who he really is."

"Then what was the point of locking yourself in a three by three space with that son of a bitch ?" Danny demands, looking irate.

"I knew he'd start the elevator again once I stopped it and I could lift his print." Steve draws a deep breath, heart still thumping in his chest. "But I also wanted to look the bastard in the eye."

***

Danny sits behind the wheel of the Camaro, foot heavy on the gas, caught between wanting to yell at Steve or simply throw him out of the car. Maybe both. He can't stop the image of watching Steve enter that elevator, the doors closing, and the damn thing stopping between floors, trapping Steve with...

Danny angrily grips the wheel, glaring at a driver who just cut him off. "By the way, a 'you're welcome' would be nice. Or thanks for going back up to the top floor to grab your crutches _after_ I just ran down twenty flights of stairs."

But Steve doesn't say a word as he stares out the window, his hand resting near the butt of his weapon.

"I'm talking to you, Steven. Please, at least give me the courtesy of acknowledging it," Danny barks. He's seething in anger and receding fear, his body still coursing with adrenaline, and damn it, Steve needs to realize how much his stunt scared him.

"You need to get into your far right lane if we're going to headquarters."

Danny blinks because it sounded like Steve just gave him an order. "Excuse me?"

"We need to run this print," Steve says, acting like this just any other day, any other case. "Kenning is smart; he's probably already put things in motion to pack up and leave town."

"Why?" Danny risks a glance at Steve. "Because you were oh, so, threatening to him in the elevator?"

Steve rotates his head just enough to check the rearview mirror. "I put the screws to him. Let him think we have more on him than we do. He's bound to call Moreno and that might be all it takes to have Moreno make a dumb mistake."

Everything is happening at breakneck speed, all heavily in their favor, and it makes Danny twitchy; Moreno isn't the only one who can slip up and make a costly error. And Danny won't let Steve's need to insert himself back into the action be theirs. They'll run the print, but that's it. He can't focus on the case and Steve at the same time.

For a few minutes, a heavy silence settles between them, and Danny contemplates turning on the radio for some white noise when Steve interrupts the awkward quiet. "I read about the raids you coordinated last night."

There is a hint an admiration to Steve's voice, and normally that would make Danny cringe given the ridiculous scale of last night's operations. But it doesn't, because it won't be the last one; in fact, he plans on upping the ante soon.

"We had three primary targets; the only way to be sure was to raid them all at once," he says like it'd been no big deal. "We confiscated over a hundred kilos of coke."

Steve doesn't turn his head to look at Danny when he speaks, just continues his paranoid surveillance out the window. "I hear a _but_ coming."

"We still can't connect any of it to Moreno." Danny sighs, irritated. "He doesn't own or lease the warehouses; he's never even been within a mile of them. The bastard doesn't get his hands dirty."

"He lost over a million dollars in product and you arrested of some of his top guys," Steve tells him. "That is the worst kind of pain to someone like him."

Danny takes the next turn a little too fast, ignoring the honking of a car horn behind him, wondering what he has to do to make it hurt even more.

***

Danny wishes he had some of Steve's meds to shove down his throat to get him to relax. It's bad enough waiting on the computer to analyze the print, but the amount of tension radiating off his partner, coupled with that damn heavy scowl, is driving him crazy.

"Would you please go sit or lie down?" he snaps.

But Steve continues leaning on the computer table, his stare unyielding on the front LCD display.

Kono crosses her hands across her chest, eyes flicking from Steve's leg to his face with a disapproving look. "This could take a while, boss."

"I have time," Steve answers, mulish.

The computer beeps, saving Danny from manhandling Steve into his office and tying him down to the sofa. He scratches at his face, reading the results. "Master Sergeant Jordan Quinn. US Marine Corps. Retired. Age forty-nine. Last stationed at the Amphibious Reconnaissance School in Coronado, California." He glowers at the screen. "Is that it?"

Chin walks toward the console. "No criminal records or even a tax return in the last fifteen years. Last known address was...wow. From August, 1999."

Steve pulls out a cell phone, ignoring where his crutches lean against the table, and limps heavily away. "I need to make a call."

Danny throws up his hands in frustration at Chin and Kono, wondering when the hell Steve went from helping with the investigation to excluding the rest of them from what the hell he's thinking.

"I'll drop by the lab, maybe grab lunch for Charlie, and see if he's made any progress on the van," Kono says, walking out.

Chin grabs an empty mug, looking at it forlornly. "I'm going to get a refill then call the guys in Narcotics and see if they've made any headway interrogating Moreno's guys that we arrested last night."

Which leaves Danny with Steve and his secret phone calls.

 

***

Danny finds Steve in his office a few minutes later, his bad leg stretched out on his sofa, laptop perched on his thigh. He glances briefly up at him. "One of my contacts sent me most of Quinn's file. He was part of Force Recon, the Marine's special operation forces."

"So you, but a Marine?"

Steve shakes his head. "They're more about deep reconnaissance than direct action, but they're a fierce bunch. They even train with SEAL and Ranger units." He squints at the screen. "According to my contact, after his first tour in Afghanistan, Quinn joined FR, served for six years, then became an instructor at Coronado."

"He trained others. In what?"

"In close quarter combat."

"In..." Danny bites his fist, feeling an impending aneurism. "Of course he did. So he's an expert at killing people who are stupid enough to enter an elevator with him!" he shouts, jabbing a finger at Steve.

Steve presses his lips together, his expression dark, his fingers tapping absently at the side of the laptop. If Danny didn't know any better, he'd swear Steve looked unsettled. Maybe even a little nervous. And it's like a slow cold mist blanketing his white-hot embers of anger.

He walks over, expression softening. "When did Quinn become Kenning? How long has he been a mercenary?

"He retired from FR five years ago before falling off the grid."

"Okay." Danny crouches down to eye level, goes for quiet and reassuring since Steve is still so high- strung. "We know who he is; we can prove that Moreno sent him funds..."

"But we still need his prints from the van," Steve says, defeated. He rubs a hand behind his neck, sulking against the couch. "We need that final nail or those payments are meaningless."

***

Equipped with a fresh cup of coffee and a Nutterbutter Bar from the vending machine, Danny paces inside Steve's office, trying to cobble together an upbeat rundown of their efforts. 

"Now that we have Quinn's bank account number, Chin's looking for any other unusual payments he might have received since his arrival. Chances are we'll be able to connect him to additional crimes since he moved here. Maybe enough to build up a big enough case him to put him away for a long, long time."

Steve pushes himself further into a sitting position on the sofa with a wince. "Do we have a unit at his house?"

Danny resists the urge to remind him that he asked that question half an hour ago. "Yeah, but so far, he's been a no-show."

"He won't return home," Steve says, rubbing ay his brow. He stopped using his computer an hour ago. "He'll regroup elsewhere."

"Speaking of home..." Danny rolls his eyes at Steve's petulant expression. It's a good thing he caffeinated up. "Hey, don't give me that look. All we were supposed to do this morning was go to Black Diamond. Then we came here to drop off the print. Now it's almost five. You're tired, not to mention –"

"I can take a nap in here if I need to."

"Yeah and where are your pills? I saw Chin fetching you some Tylenol a little while ago."

The fact that Steve doesn't have a snappy comeback is only a testament to how his crappy he feels. Danny gulps the rest of his coffee in preparation for some wrangling duties of epic proportion. He even starts pondering reinforcements when Steve's office door bursts open. 

"Guys," Kono says, practically running inside. "I just got back from the lab. We got Quinn's prints."

"Was it the visor or gas tank?" Steve asks, complete with intense game face. Despite how newly alert Steve sounds, Danny notes he doesn't make even attempt to get up. 

"Neither," Kono says, flicking her gaze between them. "It was from inside the glove compartment."

 

***

By seven, Danny has had enough. "We've got APBs on Quinn's vehicle used by his alias. Homeland Security is on alert at all the airports and even the bus terminals just in case he lies low awhile."

"He can probably fly himself out."

Danny spins around on his heel, facing Steve, the day's energy gone. But he tries, lord, he does try to be reasonable. "We're plastering private airfields with his picture. Steve, there is nothing else we can do today."

But Steve is one stubborn son of a bitch and the idiot doesn't understand the meaning of calling it a day. Not for the first time, Danny wishes they carried tranquilizer darts or some shit in their arsenal.

"Is SWAT on stand-by?" Steve asks.

"Yes. Now, listen to me," Danny says, gesturing wildly with his hands. "If Quinn is spotted, guess what? People are going to call me, not you." It pains him to see that flicker of hurt shadow Steve's face, but Danny stands his ground. "We're going home."

Steve lets out a growl of frustration, but he nods in acquiescence, moving the laptop off his legs, but doesn't do much else except stare at the floor. 

"Are you looking for your crutches?" Danny asks knowingly. "Because you left them out in the bullpen, depriving them of their function in life."

Steve won't admit to how much he is hurting, but Danny knows when to pick his battles, playing annoyed. "You know what, I'll go get them. I need more coffee anyway."

Danny walks out into the hallway, slowly putting together the pieces for a real blow to Moreno's operation. A game changer. And if Steve had been running on all cylinders, he would have seen it, too. But Danny will deal with it in the morning, run it up the flagpole, and see how it'll fly. It should bring the kind of pain he knows Moreno will actually feel. And maybe by tomorrow night, they'll be the ones to watch the asshole squirm and spin his wheels. 

****

Steve doesn't remember his head hitting the pillow last night, but when he wakens, his eyes snap open and he scans the room, pausing at the nightstand for his weapon, at the lamp, his clothes on the chair, his crutches next to them. 

After ensuring everything is secure, he allows his attention to fall on Danny, his focus lingering on his face, peaceful in sleep. The fine lines around his eyes are fainter now, his hair tussled in all directions, the chest Steve admires rising and falling in relaxed breaths. He tries memorizing these types of moments, stores them up and secures them away. Commits the scents of Aqua Velva aftershave and the faint hint of lemongrass soap for when he thinks of Danny.

Steve fights every day for such pleasures, even without touching, for there is so much to savor, so much to relish it physically hurts. Drawing a deep breath, he stares at the door, trying to conjure the energy to get up.

"Don't even," Danny says with a yawn. "If you give me a sec, I'll help you."

"You don't have to be at work until –"

"Actually, I have to get up now. You saved me from an annoying alarm."

Before Steve can ask where Danny has to be, he rolls out of bed looking like a sleep-deprived alley cat and helps Steve to his feet, everything else lost to a foggy haze of aching pain and gravity.

***

Steve can't prowl around like he wants, so he settles onto the sofa to read yesterday's paper and listen for the sound of the shower to end.

When Danny pads into the living room wearing a white button-down shirt and a tie, Steve doesn't even wait for him to say hello. "Where are you going?" 

"Jeez, you're worse than my Aunt Maggie, and she had a schnoz for gossip."

"I need to know where else we're planning on heading out to today."

Danny stares at Steve, crossing his arms defiantly in front of his chest. "We are not going anywhere."

"I'm not fucking helpless, Danny," Steve spits out, anger swelling in his veins. "I can work this case. I've been working it the last few days."

"Yes, against sane medical advice."

Steve can't believe his ears, after all the progress they've made. _Together._ "Are you kidding me? I've been out of the hospital for almost a week now."

"Yes, and you spent most of it colluding with one of my CIs," Danny says peevishly. 

"First off, it wasn't collusion, and second, Toast is Five-O's informant. You do not own exclusive rights to him."

"Since I worked with him first, yes, I do."

But Danny has found his bone to fight over, taking the high road complete with a calm voice, making Steve sound like the angry, out of control one. "This is ridiculous. We tracked Moreno's accounts and that led to us to Quinn."

"I'm not denying that," Danny says, still way too levelheaded. 

Steve clenches his jaw. "Then I'm coming to work."

"No, you're not. You have not been cleared for duty – hell, not even desk duty."

"For fuck's sake, what is it with you? This is who I am, Danny. I can't just sit here. And no, this isn't like leading one of my SEAL teams into the field. I'm still a Naval Intelligence Officer, I can still run leads, work the phones, gather –"

"Then stand up and tell me that," Danny says, moving closer, waiting a beat in expectation. "Come on."

Steve glares at Danny, eyes burning, because his knee won't let him. He hasn't taken his pain meds yet and hobbling after Quinn without crutches yesterday had hurt. "Desk work," Steve growls. "I can sit in a chair."

"Actually, you spent most of yesterday lying on a couch." Danny's expression goes from aggravated to remorseful. "Look, babe. I just want you to take it easy a couple more days. I know you're this crazy control freak, I know that you're capable of running circles around most people even when you're not at your best. But please...just please, stay home another day or two. I hate seeing you in pain more than being irritated because you're not working the case."

Steve deflates at Danny's soul baring honestly, the desperation in his voice, the frown marring his face. Steve turns away because it's too hard to confront that kind of emotional honesty on his behalf.

"Tell me why you're dressed up then," Steve mutters.

"Everything is a power play with you, huh?" Danny sighs. "Fine. I'm going to court."

Steve looks back up at him, baffled. "What for?"

"We've got Quinn on identity fraud. We have his prints in the same van that two of your neighbors can place in the neighborhood. We have your positive ID of Quinn as your attacker, and while shaky given the state of your slightly scrambled brain, you're still one hell of a witness." Danny pauses, locking eyes with Steve. "Now add in the money that Moreno wired Quinn and you have...a drum roll, please."

"Solid evidence of Moreno's involvement," Steve says, confused. He knew this already.

"Involvement as in he paid a mercenary to assault a police officer. And that is probably enough for a court order to freeze Moreno's assets since they were used in criminal activity."

"I didn't even...I should have fucking thought of that."

"And you would have," Danny says quietly. "If you were feeling a hundred percent."

Steve feels sucker-punched. The possibility of freezing Moreno's assets should have been a no-brainer and he missed it. He swallows down the self-loathing threatening to boil over. "I guess you're right."

"Judge Senna is presiding today." Danny tries for a tired smile. "She's really police friendly."

"Yeah. That's good. You'll, um...call me if she rules in our favor?"

"I'll call when she _does_ rule in our favor." Danny wedges a hip on a tiny spot of the sofa and rests a hand on Steve's shoulder, pulling him closer until their foreheads touch. "Just wait until the weekend is over then come with me to work. No doctor's note required."

Steve isn't sure what to say, so he nods silently.


	4. Conclusion

***

After years in special operations where prescribed uppers and downers were a norm, Steve has learned how to use pain medication as a tool. He can move around now, think clearly. But he feels like a ship without a compass, hobbling a familiar path from the entrance of his house into the dining room. Over and over again. 

His cell phone beeps and he pulls it out of the pocket of his cargo pants, clicking the text message. _Heads up. Stopping by a few minutes. –Kono_

By the time he processes the message, he hears a knock at the door. Grabbing his weapon and stuffing it into his waistband, he crutches toward the window, verifying it's Kono, and deactivates the alarm to let her in.

"Hey," she greets with a smile.

"Hey," he responds, suspicious.

Kono rolls her eyes. "Danny didn't send me, if that's what you think." Steve steps aside as she walks in carrying a large duffel. "I had a few minutes before going to work and thought maybe you could use this."

He cocks his head at the blue cooler Kono pulls out. "You brought me ice?"

"It's a cold kit for your knee." Kono unfolds a blue stretchy thing that looks kind of like an ace bandage with a tube attached to the cooler. "You wrap the cover around your knee, turn this on," she says, pressing a button to a small motor. "And it circulates a continuous amount of ice cold water. It worked miracles for me when I thrashed my ACL."

Steve isn't sure what to say, taken aback at the thought. "Thank you."

"I figured after yesterday, you might need it."

"Well, I'm not going after any more suspects, so..."

"Dude, you paced around headquarters yesterday before retreating to your office. You've got to use your crutches all the time or it's going to take you forever to regain full mobility."

He huffs out a grunt. "It's hard getting used to these damn things."

Kono crosses her arms in front of her chest, studying him. "Have you tried resting them against the meatiest part of your sides?" 

"Yeah." He screws up his face. "It hurt like a bitch."

"They rest against your upper ribs, so it'll definitely aggravate the ones that are cracked." But Kono looks determined, her lips curving into a grin. "You could try using just one crutch. At least it'll only put pressure on one side of your ribcage."

Steve chooses the right crutch and rests the left one against the end table. "I should hold it on my right side so I'm not leaning on my bad knee?"

"Yep. Put all the weight on your good leg. Think of it as a tripod."

It's awkward, since his wrist is broken, but Steve presses the crutch against his right side, leaning heavily on right leg, while swinging out his left leg without putting any real pressure on his left foot. He grunts when the motion stretches at his lower ribs, but he manages to walk around the living room a little easier, with only his right side in pain.

Kono watches him hobble around. "When does your PT start?" 

"Sometime next week."

"You know, when I had all the fluid drained in my knee it sped up the healing. Better blood flow means it'll feel better. I could drive you if you wanted." Kono's not shy when it comes to getting things done and she pulls out her phone and starts texting. "I know someone at the rehab center; I'll get him to prioritize you when you call."

Steve doesn't protest her presumptuousness; she knows the orthopedist overseeing his knee rehabilitation. "I'll call after lunch to set up an appointment."

Kono smiles, pleased, her eyes roaming the living room in curiosity. "So, what are you up to today?"

Most of his bolstered good mood dissipates at the question, since he can't really explain where his head has been the last couple of hours. "I was going to read up more on Quinn. See if I could get some insight into him."

"Did your contact send you anymore info?"

"No. But I haven't reviewed the whole file thoroughly yet." He'd been plagued by blurred vision after using his laptop yesterday.

"Is there enough there to get a profile of him?" Kono asks, surprised. 

Steve hobbles back to his sofa, pulls out his weapon, and lays it back on the coffee table. "I don't know. I thought maybe..." He rubs a hand over his face. "I thought if I could figure him out. See how he..."

Kono sits down next him. "How he what?"

"See how easily he read me."

"Dude. It was an unfair fight."

Steve looks up in surprise. "Fights are never fair."

"No. But that asshole played dirty from the get-go," she says venomously. "He might have been a koa once but has no code now. He might as well have shot you in the back of the head when he came in here."

"I had ample opportunity to defend myself."

"Really?" Kono's eyebrows curve in disbelief. "And how many people who are suffering from shock can think straight, let alone fight?"

"You don't understand –"

"When you walked in, he took out your knee." Kono stands up and paces restlessly, sliding her hands down her thighs. "When I wiped out on my board and tore the ligaments in mine, I got swept under the water – I couldn't breathe. I couldn't figure out what was up from down. I almost drowned. Almost died."

She stops and crouches in front of Steve, her eyes filled with such fierceness. "You were in physical shock, brah. He kicked you so hard it almost dislocated the joint. How many times when we've sparred together have you taught me how essential the legs are when it comes to a fight?"

Steve doesn't say a word, too lost in snapshots of elbows and fists. 

"Quinn taught hand to hand to special forces," Kono says, resting a hand on Steve's arm. "He knew exactly the best way to take you out."

And Steve thinks about what has been instinct for years. He'd always been taught to use the most effective way to subdue an enemy. His formal training had been a mix of Combat Jujitsu, Krav Maga, and Muay Thai. It was about abandoning flashy moves and relying on instincts, blending those moves into whatever the situation required. Moves Quinn would know the best way to counter.

Steve rubs absently around his knee brace. He bites his lip; it shouldn't matter – he still fought back. But then he remembers his palms striking something solid instead of flesh.

"He had on a vest," he says, taking a breath. "Quinn wore body armor." 

"So most of his vital areas were protected?"

"From knifes and bullets," Steve reminds her.

"And your hands, boss."

He looks over at Kono, trying to listen to her words. But he still doesn't know, isn't sure what to think.

His cell phone buzzes and he looks down, seeing Danny's name. "Hey."

_"We've got the bastard, Steven. The court is freezing all his assets."_

"You got the injunction?" Steve asks his heart pounding. 

_"And while he's in the states, he can't even access his foreign accounts. Duke already called, he said the surveillance teams saw Moreno leave his house in a hurry. We have our best guys tailing him."_

"That's great news," Steve breathes. 

_"It's only a matter of time. The walls are closing in on him."_

Steve licks his lips, a million thoughts racing through his mind. It shouldn't matter this much, but there's a swell of satisfaction filling his chest and he takes a moment to relish it. 

***

Danny comes home around nine at night since coordinating six surveillance teams and keeping the governor updated while Moreno and his people scramble around like chickens with their heads cut off is no small feat. He deactivates the alarm and unlocks the door, rolling his eyes when his cell beeps with another incoming text message.

He fumbles with a quick reply as he walks inside, lifting up his head in time to see Steve point his Sig at him from this place on the sofa. "God damn it, Steven! Would you please try not to shoot me?"

"Sorry," Steve mumbles, lowering his weapon.

"Sorry?" Danny jabs an angry finger at him. "You're responsible for a whole new set of gray hair, you asshole."

Tossing the keys on the little end table, Danny freezes in his tracks when he notices the contraption hooked up to Steve's knee. "Where the hell did you get a cold kit?"

"Kono dropped it by." Steve makes a soft grunt of contentment, resting his head against the mountain of pillows behind him. "Didn't she tell you?"

There is a soft ember of happiness inside Danny's chest at seeing Steve enjoy some type of relief. He owes Kono a box of masalas. 

"No, we were too busy chasing down Moreno's crew, and before you ask, he went to the bank then home." Danny plops down in the recliner and closes his eyes. He has a low-grade headache. "But activity is up at two suspected warehouses and Narcotics said the word on the street is Moreno is about to accept a major shipment of ice tomorrow."

"He needs cash flow."

"Exactly."

"You guys have any idea how or where the shipment is arriving?"

"Under the radar by seaplane." Danny peels open his eyes, unsurprised at how fast Steve sits up, his eyes practically shining. "I know that must be like catnip to you."

A ghost of a smile spreads across Steve's face before he hunkers down into serious mode again. "Think Moreno will oversee it personally?"

And Steve has that look, like the one before he tries taking over everything. Danny can't help the deep sigh in his chest. "Not sure. He's always kept his hands clean, but we have some of his top guys, and he might want to supervise this one. But even if he doesn't go near it, we'll seize the shipment." It's a win-win in his book.

"Any word on Quinn?"

"Nothing yet." Danny catches Steve's eyes, layering his next words with heavy conviction. "But we're freezing his back accounts tomorrow. Hopefully, that will smoke him out."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to wrap up the case before the weekend."

"Would that be so bad?" Danny asks, feeling exhausted. He wants this whole nightmare to finally be over. 

Steve drops his gaze into his lap like he's intensely studying his hands. He slowly nods. "No, it wouldn't."

 

***

The amount of paperwork needed to deal with detectives in major crimes and narcotics – not to mention surveillance teams – doesn't require a shovel but a freaking bulldozer. If Steve didn't have lingering issues from his concussion, Danny would make him help from home. He scrubs a hand over his face. In an hour, he has a check-in with everyone involved in tonight's possible bust. Denning even pulled some strings with the Navy to keep an eye on Waimea Bay for any planes trying to skate under the radar.

He hears a knock on his door and glances up when Chin walks in and dumps another file on Danny's pile. "This is the transcript from the first set of interrogations of Moreno's men from the bust the other night."

"Thanks, I'll read them sometime in the next decade," Danny mutters. He leans back in his chair, stretching out his arms, and looks through his window into the hall. "Kono back yet?"

"She just texted me a few minutes ago. Said Steve just went in for his procedure and he should be done in an hour."

Danny grimaces. Steve told him last night that Kono had gotten him an appointment to get his knee drained, something he is far too familiar with. "Now if he'll just use his damn crutches."

"Maybe if you handcuff McGarrett to them," Chin says with a chuckle. "But after she drops him off, she'll come here and help with the preparations for tonight."

Danny picks up a pen and opens the next folder. "Tell her to bring lunch if she's finding ways to dodge helping me with all this damn paperwork."

 

***

After a conference call between five different alpha dog detectives and a captain, Danny strides toward the coffee pot and pours himself a cup, his ears still ringing from people trying to yell over each other.

He looks up when he sees Chin striding over, waving his cell around excitedly. "Duke just called. He said someone at the marina identified Quinn trying to rent a yacht. They dialed HPD based on the BOLO from Homeland Security."

"What? Is he still there?"

"The call came in two minutes ago from the rental company," Chin fills him in. "Guy said that it'll take half an hour to fuel the ship and to walk Quinn through the usual inspection given to all renters."

Danny checks his watch. "That leaves only twenty minutes."

"Twenty?" Chin says eyes wide. "Maybe if Steve or Kono were driving."

"Hey." Danny holds out a finger. "Do not mock my driving skills; I'll get us there in time." He takes a large gulp of coffee and tosses away the cup. "Call Duke, tell him to have a SWAT team standing by. I'll get our gear from the locker room."

***

He debates calling Steve, but what if it's a false lead? And if Quinn is trying to get the Hell out of Dodge, wouldn't it be torture to let Steve know and then have to hang up on him?

Once again, Danny feels split between two focal points and he knows that could get him or someone else killed. So, he mentally shoves all thoughts about Steve into the back of his mind and pulls into another lane to pass the BMW in front of him.

"Okay, I was wrong earlier: you are Speed Racer," Chin says with a half-smile. Danny glares at him, but Chin's cell rings and he quickly answers it. "Hey, Kono, how far away are you? We'll probably get there at the same time." He laughs. "Okay. I'll have in on that."

"What was that about?" Danny asks.

"Kono's about two miles behind us and she wagered me dinner that she'd pass us along the way."

Normally, Danny would say this isn't a race, except it is, and he presses his foot harder on the accelerator.

***

As soon as they exit the off ramp toward the harbor, traffic slows to a crawl. "Come on," Danny yells.

Chin quirks an eyebrow at him, but remains Zen-calm. "What's our play when we arrive?" 

"Verify Quinn is at the marina, wait for back-up to arrive, and go in."

"Are we actually going to wait on SWAT?" Chin asks, skeptical.

"Yes. Unless the situation dictates otherwise."

"Sounds awfully like a McGarrett plan."

Danny ignores Chin's jab while shooting daggers at the roadwork ahead. A construction worker in a hard hat motions the Ford pickup and BMW ahead of them but holds up his hand to stop Danny before waving at a dump truck parked by the side of the road to move. The dump truck backs up from the shoulder, blocking both lanes. 

"He's never going to get the angle right to pull close enough to the edge," Danny grumbles, glancing at the rear-view mirror.

A dark SUV pulls up behind them and all the hair along Danny's arms stand on end. He looks between the SUV and the dump truck. "Chin?"

Chin pulls out his Sig. "I don't like it."

Danny watches the construction guy signal the dump truck and he sees the moment when four men pour out from the cab of the truck with automatic rifles. The tip on the marina is a set-up. 

"Hold on!" Danny slams on the gas.

The construction worker pulls out a Glock and dives out of the way of the Camaro. But Danny keeps driving forward toward the men in front of the dump truck, aiming his car like a missile at the two closest thugs, yanking on the steering wheel and clipping both bastards with the front of his car. 

"Get down!" Chin yells.

Danny ducks his head as bullets rip through the windshield from the two other gunmen. Even without seeing the SUV, he knows those guys are hopping out of that vehicle as well. So, he keeps his head down, puts the Camaro in reverse, and hits the accelerator again, yanking on the steering wheel in the opposite direction to straighten out while bullets burst through the rear windshield.

"There's a key tucked into the passenger sun visor. Use it to pull the grenade out of the glove box!" Danny yells at Chin.

Danny continues driving in reverse until his car rear-ends the SUV. He flinches when glass rains down over his head from more bullets. 

"We need to get out of this crossfire," Chin yells. He holds out his weapon for Danny to take. "Cover me so I can take out the guys at our twelve o'clock."

"Hold on." Danny bends down, smashing the lever to the driver's seat until it lays all the way flat. "Okay."

Danny grabs Chin's Sig with his right hand and pulls his out with his left. Lying on his side over the flattened driver's seat, he stretches each arm in the opposite direction and fires out both shattered windshields. 

Using the distraction, Chin opens the passenger door for cover, pulls the pin from the grenade, and lobs it at the goons in front of the dump truck, the explosion rocking the Camaro.

Danny shoves himself further onto the car floor as rear of the Camaro is hammered again by another barrage of bullets. 

After tossing the grenade, Chin wedges himself under the glove box, breathing hard. "Got anymore?"

"No!" Danny yells, wasting a second on the irony of the question. 

He stays smashed under the steering column, trying to decide between using the Camaro as a weapon again or diving out of it before it becomes Swiss Cheese. 

A loud _pop, pop, pop_ echoes above the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of the M4s and suddenly they're not under heavy fire. 

"Is that one of ours?" Danny yells over the noise.

"Not sure," Chin huffs listening. "Must be. They're drawing the heat away from us."

Danny shoves Chin's weapon back into his hand. "On three, we'll make a break for the side of the road for cover." Chin nods and Danny awkwardly turns around, fingers grabbing the door handle. "One, two, and go!"

Danny shoves open the door and begins sprinting. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a guy by the SUV with his back to him. Danny aims low so he doesn't accidentally shoot their back-up, one of his rounds hitting the goon in the leg.

Danny dives into the ditch and does a scramble up to the edge until he's flat on his belly, weapon drawn. He counts the remains of three bodies in front of the dump truck, the smell of burnt flesh making him gag. That leaves one more gunman and the construction guy. He scans the area, noticing a fourth body off to the side with two unnaturally bent legs and a pool of blood underneath it. Taking a precious second, he checks his clip and counts two bullets left. Great. 

Glancing over at the SUV, he listens to the firefight. It's down to three shooters. One M4 and two Sigs. Those are good odds.

Danny notices movement between the big tires of the dump truck and he aims his weapon at the construction worker limping around, using the hood to lean against. 

"Five-O!" Danny shouts. "Get down on the ground!"

Construction Guy whirls around, pointing his Glock, and Danny squeezes the trigger, dropping the guy. Danny gasps for breath, scanning the area by his car and the SUV, trying to figure out where to focus his attention next when he hears Chin's voice.

"Danny? What's your status?"

"I think I'm clear. What about you?"

"We're clear."

"We?" Danny yells.

"Who else do you know saves your ass?

Danny smiles at the sound of Kono's voice. "Can you guys cover me?"

"On it," both Chin and Kono answer.

Danny rises to a crouch and goes to first fallen suspect, securing his weapon and taking it as his own to use. Then he checks the rest, kicking their rifles out of reach, Chin and Kono hot on his heels. 

By the fourth body, Danny growls in frustration when he doesn't find a pulse. He hears a low groan and runs toward the construction worker, grabbing the Glock off the ground and tossing it to Chin.

"Hey." Danny kneels next to the guy who has a hole in his belly, leaking massive amounts of blood. "I know Moreno sent you. What were you supposed to do when the job was done?" But the guy is fading rapidly and Danny grabs him by the jaw, forcing the asshole to look up at him. "What was your next move? Tell me!"

Construction Guy coughs up a stream of crimson from his mouth. "Wait...to..."

"Wait to what?" Danny demands his mind is going a million miles per hour.

"To...hear...other team..."

It feels like someone stabbed Danny in the chest. No, no, no. Fuck. Because he knows in absolute dread what that means. "What other team?"

The guy gurgles up more blood and his eyes go vacant.

"There's another hit squad," Danny shouts panicked at Chin and Kono. "They must be after Steve." He fumbles for his cell, but he must have lost it in the middle of the chaos and his chest becomes unbearably tight. "I can't find my phone."

"I've got mine," Chin says, pulling out his and quickly handing it to Danny.

"I'm calling HPD to send more units to Steve's," Kono says, looking frazzled.

Frenzied, Danny punches in Steve's number, turning to run toward his car and freezes, gut-punched. The Camaro is toast. 

The phone rings in Danny's ear while his heart feels like it is about to rip out of his chest. "Kono, when you're done with HPD, see if you can reach the unit watching the house."

Kono gives a quick nod and gestures past the SUV. "Come on, we'll take my car."

Danny runs after her, Chin close behind him as he waits for to Steve pick up – the call going to voice mail. 

***

Steve stirs the pot of pasta when he hears his cell phone ring. He curses, because he really doesn't want it overcooked, but it's his fault for leaving his phone on the coffee table. Grabbing his crutch, he hurries through the dining room, his knee still pretty numb from the anesthetic used for the needle drain. The ringing stops before he reaches it and he slows down since he really doesn't want to overdo things, not after the swelling has gone down so much.

His cell begins ringing again. 

"McGarrett."

_"Steve! Thank god. You've need to get out of the house."_

"Danny? What's wrong?"

_"Moreno set us up and sent a hit squad after Chin and me. Kono's with us, she's fine, but there's a team heading to your house."_

Steve plasters himself to the wall, checking through the living room window without moving the curtains. He doesn't see anyone in the uni outside. "The patrol car outside is empty. I have to let you go, Danny."

_"Steve! Don't –"_

He clicks off the cell. If he goes outside into the open, he's probably dead. Making a stand is his only option. Steve tosses his crutch onto the sofa and takes a deep breath to brace himself for the upcoming abuse. He shoves the sofa away from the window with a grunt and adjusts it until it bisects the room diagonally so he'll have the vantage of both entry points. Then he pushes the recliner in front of the door.

The lights blink off along with the air conditioner. They've cut the power to the alarm. Hobbling over, he leans on the back of the leather sofa to watch the living room door and the ones leading to the lanai. 

He doesn't wait long. 

Bullets rip through the glass doors by the dining room and two goons dressed in black kick in the remains, storming inside. Steve aims and squeezes the trigger. The first guy collapses from shot to the forehead, the second guy takes a round in the shoulder, then two more in the torso.

Steve spins around as the front door is kicked open. Two men aim assault rifles in his direction and Steve throws himself onto the floor, a hail of bullets slicing the air where his head had been. The recliner keeps both men from rushing in and one of them has to stop to shove it away. 

Lying on his stomach, Steve takes the opportunity to shoot them above the knees. Both men scream and writhe on the floor, but the closest guy hasn't let go of his weapon and he fires erratically in Steve's direction. Steve rolls away while squeezing the trigger until the M4 goes silent, his own weapon clicking empty. 

But he doesn't have time to react or even breathe when he hears the sound of boots crunching over the broken glass scattered across the floor. He uses a chair to force himself to his feet, ignoring the flare of vertigo, and fast limps toward the hutch. Grabbing a ballpoint pen out of a mug, Steve flattens himself against the wall. He listens to the sounds of the approaching target, timing the number of steps it takes to round the corner. At the flash of a body, Steve locates the man's throat and jabs the pen into his jugular.

The guy grabs at his thick neck, gasping and gurgling, and drops to his knees as blood gushes over his fingers. 

His buddy comes up from behind him and freezes in shock, then notices Steve, his acne scarred face wrinkling in fury. But split seconds win fights. Before Furious Guy can raise his M4, Steve strikes him in the nose with his elbow, followed by a jab in the chest with his left palm. 

The rifle clatters to the ground and Steve bends over to retrieve it. But Furious Guy grabs Steve around the shoulders in a half stumble and bodily spins him into the wall, Steve's back connecting hard against the plaster.

Obviously seeing his play, Furious Guy twists away to scramble after the rifle. With a yell of pain, Steve stumbles toward the sofa, grabs his crutch, and with both hands, brings it down onto the top of the guy's skull. Then he lifts it up again and slams it against the back of the neck, the man crumpling in a heap.

Breathing hard, his heart racing inside his chest, Steve grabs the rifle and trains it across the living room. But everyone is dead or unmoving. He needs to find a place to hole up, wait for reinforcements to arrive. Slowly, he makes his way toward the kitchen, eyes darting from body to body, checking for movement. 

The door to the kitchen is half-ajar and he cranes his neck, scanning it quickly before walking backward inside. He can't take his eyes off the living room, his breathing ragged, sweat pooled under his armpits, down his back. He just needs a few minutes, because he knows his team is on their way and probably half the HPD. 

He thinks maybe he should have gone outside but quickly dismisses the thought since outside means exposure and he still has no idea if he's eliminated all the threats. The side of his hip brushes against the kitchen island and Steve licks his lips, peering down at the M4, checking the clip, and tightening his grip around it. 

Steve hears the door to the garage open, and before he can turn around, he feels an arm slide around his throat and neck while a hand wraps around his head, pressing it forward into a vice. All his air is cut off and his brain goes into a controlled kind of panic. He drops the rifle and elbows his assailant several times, but it hits solid resistance. Body armor. It's Quinn. Steve knows it in his gut.

He turns his chin and bears down against the choking arm while raising his shoulders to relieve some of the pressure. But the force builds around both his carotid arteries and soon he'll pass out from lack of oxygen – except Quinn won't let go until Steve is dead.

He reaches backward to peel the fingers off the arm behind his head, but it's useless, and Quinn only cinches his arm tighter around Steve's throat.

Dizzy, Steve drops his arm and grabs at his belt and slowly manages to undo the buckle. With black dots smearing his vision, Steve pulls his belt free, folding the anchor down until his fingers wrap around the prong. With one last surge of adrenaline, he stabs the metal prong into the center of Quinn's forearm and rakes it across.

Screaming, Quinn releases his grip and Steve twists away from his grasp, trying to suck in air into his starving lungs. He stumbles against the island to regain his balance, then hobbles toward the stove, grabbing the pot of pasta and splashes the boiling water into Quinn's face as he lunges at him. 

Quinn shrieks in pain, staggering back in shock.

Steve takes advantages of the distraction by yanking out a large steak knife out of the nearest drawer. But Quinn launches himself forward, striking Steve in the cast with his left forearm, knocking the knife out of his hand. Then he punches Steve hard in the solar plexus, causing him to stumble backward into the refrigerator, stunning him. But instinct takes over, and when Steve sees how bad the wound is in Quinn's arm, he punches him in the shoulder joint, striking the nerve.

Quinn staggers back, clearly in pain. He shakes his head like he can't track correctly, his face blistered, and a steady stream of bright crimson running down his right forearm. They're both injured, both desperate.

Quinn pulls out a K-bar and Steve curses the fact his knife is in the bedroom. But Quinn's grip is weak, the small pool of blood growing by his feet.

"Based on the color of that blood... we both know I nicked an artery," Steve says breathless. "Probably... the ulnar. If we don't apply pressure to it soon... you'll bleed out."

"Then it'll be a challenge."

Quinn comes at him, and the only thing Steve can do is meet his rush. He grabs Quinn's forearm, digging his thumb into nerve, then steps behind him. Using Quinn's own momentum, Steve yanks Quinn's wrist down, and sends the knife into the unprotected part of Quinn's thigh, hitting the femoral artery.

Steve sinks to his knees with Quinn to the floor, completely exhausted. Quinn stares at the knife sticking out of his leg before rolling onto his side. Steve crawls toward the fallen rifle, dragging his bum leg behind him until he wraps his fingers around the weapon. Unable to keep himself up anymore, he uses the last of his energy to scoot back until his shoulders hit the stove, his body sagging against it, the rifle secured to his chest.

He watches Quinn bleed out, unable to help the bastard, and finding no real sense of satisfaction in his death. Steve is kind of numb, which is odd, since he should be in a fair amount of pain. He thinks maybe everything will hit him once the adrenaline rush fades.

***

Danny sits stuffed in the backseat of Kono's car, the ride a blur of roads and street signs at ninety miles per hour. But for once, he doesn't give a shit about driving since they reach Steve's in record time. 

The front door is wide open, and he takes point, his heart beating so fast it's bound to cause permanent damage. He walks over the two bodies slumped in the entrance; with so much blood, Danny doesn't bother checking for a pulse. 

"Steve?" he calls out, frantic.

Nothing. 

Chin moves in front of Danny, Kono on his heels. Training his shotgun across the room, Chin inches over and kneels next to a body by the sofa, pressing a finger to the guy's neck. "This one is alive."

Danny spots three more bodies scattered between the office, living, and dining rooms. Even from here, he can tell they're dead. It's like a damned war zone. "Steve!" he shouts again.

Kono avoids walking in large pool of blood on the floor, her eyes wide in shock when she peers down at the body by her feet. Danny looks down at the pen sticking out of the man's neck, but he's numb to the gruesome discovery. Numb when Chin tells him everyone else is dead, numb when he finally hears the sirens of back-up and EMS arriving. 

Chin covers the kitchen door and nods. With Kono behind him, Danny kicks the door the rest of the way open, training his gun from right to left, his eyes landing on Quinn, on a blood puddle, then on Steve slumped against the stove, clutching a rifle. 

"Steve!" Danny runs over and quickly kneels in front of him. "Steve, look at me. Are you hurt?"

Steve squints up at him slightly dazed. "No... I'm good."

Danny is almost drunk in relief, his head fuzzy. "Please forgive me if I don't believe you, because there are like a half a dozen bodies strewn all over the place."

"I didn't hear you," Steve says, sounding confused. It isn't a good answer, and Danny starts thinking shock when Steve continues talking. "I don't think I'm injured. Maybe... a little sore."

"Think maybe you could hand over the weapon?"

Steve gives Danny a tired smile, relinquishing the rifle with slightly shaky hands. 

Danny takes it and sets it down, then runs his fingers over Steve's chest, his sides. Thanking god that there are no gunshot or stab wounds, his relief fades to anger. "What's the matter with you, huh? Hanging up on me like that? You inconsiderate asshole."

"I'm sorry, Danny."

"Sorry doesn't give me back years of my life, Steven. Years." Danny stops ranting for a second and looks at Steve in disbelief. "Did you just apologize? You have another concussion, don't you?"

Danny slides his hands across Steve's head, gently touching his scalp, his eyes wide and assessing, Steve not saying a word in protest.

It feels like his heart might give out any moment when Steve lifts up a finger and slowly smoothes it over the fluttering pulse point in Danny's neck. "It's okay, Danny. I'm okay." 

Something inside him breaks a little at the care in Steve's touch, at the soft, kind reassurance of his voice. Danny leans over and rests his head on Steve's shoulder, wrapping his arms around his neck, relishing the warmth of his skin.

And Steve lets him without objection, his voice barely audible over the blood rushing in Danny's ears. "Are you good? Did you –"

"I'm fine. And Kono and Chin are fine," Danny breathes, then lets out a frantic laugh. "We were worried about you, you knucklehead." He glances behind him at Quinn's body. "But it looks like you handled things in your usual over the top, spectacular way."

"What about the uni out front?"

"Holden and James were locked in the trunk," Chin speaks up from the doorway. "Duke just found them." 

Danny feels like an asshole for not thinking about them.

"Are there any other survivors?" Steve asks. 

"Five dead," Chin tells him. "But one guy is still alive. He's about to get transported to King's."

Steve nods. Danny knows he doesn't take pleasure in killing others; it's a necessary skill, one that Steve deftly excels at. 

Steve takes a deep breath and grimaces, his arm automatically bracing his side. Danny bets whatever adrenaline rush that got Steve through the last few minutes is over now. "Are you revising your previous statement about just being sore?" 

"Probably," Steve admits.

"I'll tell Kono to grab one of the paramedics," Chin says, going out into the living room.

Steve slowly turns his gaze to stare at Quinn's body, and Danny wonders what could be going through his crazy mind. 

"He got the drop on me again," Steve tells Danny, his voice rough. "I hadn't cleared the garage and Quinn came through the door leading into the kitchen."

"Don't start second guessing yourself again. Just don't. He's dead and you're not."

"I don't understand guys like him."

"And you never will. Money. Power. It's not about any of that shit." Danny jerks his hand toward Quinn's dead body. "For whatever reason, he lost his purpose and never found a way to fill whatever dark void was inside."

Steve swallows, nodding.

Kono pokes her head in, smiling when she sees them. "I've got the paramedics here to check you out, boss."

Steve leans his head back against the counter obviously spent. "Send them over."

"Hey," Danny says quietly. "I'll go with you to the ER, but I might have to make a hasty exit."

He waits for Steve to protest or try talking his way into coming with him, but instead, Steve looks Danny directly in the eyes. "Slap the handcuffs on Moreno extra tight for me."

Danny know this a big step or Steve – accepting the fact Danny can and will take risks on his behalf. "It'll be my pleasure."

***

It only takes two hours before they get a tip Moreno is trying to flee the country. Apparently, when word spreads you tried to take out the Governor's task force and failed, seaplanes filled with drugs don't arrive. 

Danny drives like the world is on fire, six other HPD vehicles close behind him, sirens blaring. Kono doesn't bat an eyelash.

"You hear from, Chin?" he asks.

"Not in the last two minutes," Kono says with wry smile. "You were there when Steve came out of X-ray. He's bruised, but nothing's broken."

"I know, it's just –"

"Chin's taking him to your place and he's staying with him until we're done. Not that he needs to," she says with a non-subtle cough.

"Did you forget about the two hit squads from earlier?"

"No. And I didn't forget the six dead guys all over the boss's house, either. One of them skewered with a ball point pen," she says in awe.

"What? So, I'm wrong if I want to look after him? If I don't, he sure as hell won't."

"No, I think you forget that Steve isn't made of glass. He might have a few cracks, but he knows how much pressure he can handle. I think maybe if you talk to him instead of making assumptions..."

Danny grips the steering wheel. "Maybe you should look into printing an advice column."

Kono laughs. "Not with you and Steve keeping me busy."

***

The private airstrip has more squad cars than the total number of people and planes in the hanger. Moreno's limo is in the tiny parking lot surrounded by a dozen HPD officers waiting on Danny's cue.

Part of him wishes Moreno would try to shoot his way out and save them all the trouble. But as soon as Danny and Kono exit the unmarked cruiser, Moreno steps out of his limo.

Oozing the same smugness from the art opening, Moreno walks toward Danny with barely suppressed contempt. It only makes Danny rage at the idea the bastard really thought he could get away with trying to kill his team. Murder Danny's family. 

Pulling out a cigar, Moreno bites off the end, spitting it an inch from Danny's shoes before lighting it. "You again. Don't you have better things to do, Detective?"

Danny kicks at the ground to cover up the mess by his shoes, making sure to get brown dust on the front of Moreno's white dress slacks. "I do. Like serving the warrant for your arrest."

Moreno uselessly smacks at his slacks to rid the dirt. "For what?" he scoffs. "That whole conspiracy to an assault a police officer thing? I heard the man responsible for that is dead."

"No, see that warrant still stands," Danny says, stepping into Moreno's personal space. "As does the four attempted murder charges issued tonight. And given scope of the crime, and the fact it targeted all four members of the Governor's Task Force, the State of Hawaii made an exception and allowed an emergency hearing with Judge Senna."

 _"Mierda!"_ Moreno snarls, getting in Danny's face. "You have no proof."

"Oh, you mean besides the pile of evidence collected since we froze your assets? By the way, I see additional federal charges soon. But the current ones, the ones concerning the orchestration of four murders?" Danny actually smiles, slow and deliberate, enjoying how the sweat beads across Moreno's brow. "Maybe the next time you order a hit or two, you might want to check if the mercenary asshole you hired recorded your conversations. Because you know these ex-military types, they're always paranoid."

"It's amazing the clarity cell phones have these days," Kono adds with a deadly smile of her own.

"Quinn had it on him," Danny says, turning the screws, loving the shock reflected in Moreno's eyes. "Probably as an insurance policy in case things went wrong. Don't worry. I'm sure American prison is better than Colombian."

"Do you really think you'll be safe?" Moreno sneers, his face beet red. "You and your family are dead!" 

Moreno tries to snub the cigar on Danny's shoulder, but Danny knocks it out of his hand and jabs his fist into Moreno's fat belly. Moreno doubles over while Danny twists his arm behind his back. Danny slaps the first cuff on tight, almost cutting off the circulation, then pulls back Moreno's other arm, snapping on the other cuff. 

Breathing hard, he stomps on the cigar, and turns to Kono in satisfaction. "Book this asshole."

Kono smiles in delight, the two of them sharing a contented grin, knowing the week from hell is finally over, before she shoves Moreno toward her car. 

***

The little green sofa in Danny's apartment is more like giant loveseat, but it's long enough to allow Steve to stretch out, his head comfortable atop a large pillow. He misses the sound of ocean waves; the quiet is loud in its emptiness. 

He rarely stays at Danny's. With all of Grace's pink and glitter taking up half the living room, it never felt right. Like he'd be intruding. But while the quiet takes getting used to, Steve thinks he could enjoy seeing brightly colored walls on a more regular basis, walls that haven't sheltered the violence inside his home. 

Closing his eyes, he pushes away the last traces of today, his mind drifting above his unfolding exhaustion. It's not long before he hears a familiar foot tread outside the hall, and he listens to Danny walk quietly inside and put his keys in the little bowl on his end table as he stands around, undoubtedly trying to decide what to do next. 

"How did the booking go?" Steve asks.

"For the love of…. Would it kill you for just once to actually be, I don't know, convalescing like a normal person and not trying to give me a heart attack?"

Steve opens his eyes. Danny looks rumpled; his hair is messy and his shirt is wrinkled. "I heard you unlock the door."

Danny just looks at Steve as if he has no idea what to do with him, his expression exasperated. But when he speaks, it's in vindication. "Moreno is currently a resident of Halawa and should be there for a long time pending trial. No judge is going to grant him bail."

Danny watches him, but Steve just looks straight ahead, a knot of tension inside him loosening. It's a good feeling, but he knows better than to ever fully relax.

"If we didn't have Quinn's cell phone, there was a good chance Moreno might have actually gotten away and fled the country," Danny says, filling in the silence. "What made you think of checking Quinn's body for evidence?"

"Quinn's life was about conflict and strategy." Steve thinks back to his years of training, years of hard forged instincts. "Never underestimate your opponent and expect the unexpected." He looks over at the entryway of the living room. "I think that's why he didn't hide behind the door during the first attack. Instinctively, it's the first place I'd look." And maybe Steve would need to start thinking outside the box more. "It just didn't make sense he'd work for someone like Moreno without keeping a tactical advantage."

Danny doesn't say anything for a long moment before clearing his throat. "When did Chin leave?"

"Right after you called and told me you arrested Moreno." Steve looks over. "He didn't need to stay."

It's obvious Danny isn't totally convinced, but he switches subjects. "How are you feeling?"

"A little more battered than before." It's the truth. His knee isn't happy and Steve took a few good licks that set back the healing process. Tomorrow morning is going to be hell.

Danny stands there, his gaze lingering on the newest marks on Steve's throat. And before Steve can utter a word, Danny leans a knee on the cushion with one hand braced on the back of the sofa, hesitating.

A familiar pang of disappointment burrows through Steve's chest. "I'm not fragile, Danno."

"I know you're not. Jesus, Steven." Danny scoots his way on the edge of the sofa, his eyes intense. "I know exactly what you're capable of. I've seen you work through cases on no sleep for days and still be able to fly a chopper and land on a dime, then run through a jungle to take out the bad guys. I know you have this never-say-die, never-quit attitude."

"It's what's kept me alive for a long time."

"Yeah, I bet it has. But maybe I was just too scared to admit it. I mean, North Korea and jungle plane crashes are one thing, but I found you on your own dining room floor." Danny sucks in a heavy breath, his voice cracking. "I took the damn pictures."

"Danny," Steve whispers. 

"I wasn't sharing your bed before, Steve. Not until the last six months, not until after... after all that other stuff. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to protect you, damn it." Danny holds up a hand before Steve can interrupt. "I am fully aware of this insane attitude of yours. It's what helped you survive today. The SEAL you, well, it's been hard to accept at times, but I know it's what kept you going, even when you might have doubted yourself. It prevailed."

No one's ever bothered to work hard enough to breach Steve's defenses and to pick them apart. And he's so damn grateful for such determination, such care, because they've been able create a bridge between each other's needs. So, Steve listens, allowing Danny to make the bridge even stronger. 

"While I may not be a SEAL, I am still a cop," Danny says, breathless. "Still your partner in every sense of the word. And as your partner, I am allowed to take care of you. Not coddle. But care for."

"I don't." Steve swallows, his mouth horribly dry. "You know that's difficult for me."

"I know it is," Danny whispers. "But let me do this."

"Do what?"

Danny smiles. "First off, all six foot one of you is squished on my tiny love seat. And second, you're in the same clothes after killing an army and going to the ER. So, let's get you up and settled in a large bed."

Stretching out sounds like heaven. 

"I don't have my crutches."

"No, they're evidence, you numbskull." But Danny has this sweet, fond grin. "Come on, tough guy. I have it on good authority that I have dependable, strong shoulders." He wordlessly helps Steve get to his feet, slow and easy, wrapping one arm around Steve's waist, while Steve slings an arm around Danny's neck. "There we go."

Danny takes one slow step after another into the bedroom, Steve leaning heavily on him. Because, yeah, he's sore, the meds he took at the hospital slowly fading away. 

Danny helps him take off his T-shirt, careful that the tee doesn't snag on his cast. Steve doesn't protest when Danny helps him step out of his cargo pants using Danny's shoulder for support. And he doesn't say a word when Danny unfolds the covers while Steve settles on his back, his eyes on Danny's hands, on the contented smile curving his lips. 

Danny kicks off his shoes and sits beside Steve, his eyes looking over Steve's knee brace. "Tomorrow, we'll see about getting the cold kit back from your house," he says. "But I have an icepack if you want one."

"All I want is right here," Steve tells him. 

"Oh, yeah?" Danny takes off his own shirt, quickly shucks out of his pants, and crawls onto the bed and closer to Steve. 

Steve slides a hand into Danny's hair and gazes at his mouth, his blue eyes, wanting, asking. And Steve leans in and kisses him, savoring Danny's tongue, his soft lips, tasting coffee and the edges of adrenaline.

Danny moves closer, gently draping his side along Steve. It's a shock to feel the full length of Danny's body warm against his.

"Is this too much weight?" Danny asks.

"No," Steve says, loving the feeling of Danny's chest brushing against his.

Danny looks over at Steve with such reverence. "When these bruises fade away, I only want you to remember my mouth," he says. "Promise me."

"I promise," Steve says softly.

Danny slides his hand over the curve of Steve's jaw, pulling him into another kiss. Then slowly, he moves his mouth down the side of Steve's throat, pressing his lips gently over the bruises from earlier today, Steve shivering from the feeling of Danny's scattershot breath against his skin.

Steve runs his fingers through Danny's hair, but he doesn't try to pull him away, or take over, letting Danny control things. 

And Danny bends his head, kissing a path along Steve's collarbone then down his sides, and over Steve's tender ribs, wet kisses to his belly, Steve's muscles tensing and relaxing with every gentle press of Danny's lips. 

Steve takes a shuddery breath at the sensations running through his whole body, knowing from his experience that physically, he can't respond like he wants right now. "Danny...I..."

"Shhhh. No expectations, no pressure." Danny says voice soft, affectionate. "I told you that before."

"But –"

"This isn't about sex, babe. We have plenty time for that when you're up for it. This is about me taking care of you, remember?"

Steve can't remember the last time someone wanted to love him like this. "Come here," Steve says, his voice rough with emotion.

"Is that an order?" Danny smiles. 

Steve wraps his arms around Danny's broad back, pulling his closer until Danny is a warm blanket draped over his right side, his weight mostly on the bed with an arm around Steve's middle. He loves this, basking in the comfort of Danny next to him, of sharing the same heat, the same skin. 

Danny rests his head in the crook of Steve's shoulder and collarbone, sighing deeply. Steve grins lazily as he runs a hand through Danny's hair again. "I thought maybe, if it's all right with you...that we could spend more nights here? Maybe alternate?"

"You wouldn't be able to take your five mile swim."

"I'd trade that for breakfast in the morning."

"Oh, so now I'm cooking you breakfast?"

Steve closes his eyes, his breathing slow, his body heavy and relaxed. "Mmm-hmm."

Danny finds Steve's hand. "I'll make pancakes tomorrow. You can cook me eggs when we sleep at your place."

Steve smiles, his and Danny's fingers intertwined as they fall asleep. 

***  
fini-


End file.
